Two Years Lost
by telekineticBURN
Summary: Sydney vs. Julia [[ Sarkney, COMPLETE ]]
1. Fray

**Two Years Lost**  
by Lauren Wallace (( RainbowGroupie ))

Rating : R (language, graphic violence)

Pairing : Sydney/Sark

Other Pairing(s) : Sydney/Weiss, Sark/Allison, Sydney/Simon

Summary : Sydney vs. Julia. Winner takes all.

Disclaimer : I own a Raiders jersey and a stick of gum. Nothing else.

Beta-read by Becca. Many thanks.

**Takes places after the events of S3.6 "The Nemesis".**

Two years lost.

At least he remembered.

Everything had changed; The Man was gone, lost in obscurity. Allison was alive, his Allison, the mystifying princess that came and left him wondering if she was with him for herself or on the behest of the Covenant. His contacts, all those scared little men with ears that heard everything, were worth nothing anymore. His body was worn and his mind full of fury. He was little more than a rat, he supposed, vile and unwanted, but forever climbing to the surface when the water rose too high.

He heard the muffled noise of her dropping to the ground, and he saw Sydney land on her feet at a crouch. He almost smiled when he thought of it - she always lands on her feet.

She touched a hand to the carpet for balance. The other was up and pointing a gun - a Beretta, of course.

"I must say I never expected to see you here," he said evenly. She smiled like she was in pain, and that much, he guessed, was true.

"I hear you've met Lauren," she explained.

"Lovely woman," he answered, and drew out his Glock and tossed it to her feet. "Though I must say, Agent Vaughn seems to be working rather down the ladder."

She wanted to hit him, and he would have let her.

"The switchblade, and the Luger." She digressed - "Honestly, Sark, who carries a Luger anymore?"

He let out a shuddering laugh and placed the mentioned weaponry on the table. He even gave her the garroting wire. He'd just returned from an assignment, to use a euphemism. "Shouldn't you be in prison?" he demanded.

"What, afraid your cell's not receiving proper care? Afraid your plants will die?"

She was different tonight, less confused. Then again she always was when on a mission.

He reached for the Sig hidden under the bed when she dropped her Beretta onto the table with his own assorted weapons.

"May I?" she asked, pulling back a chair.

He should have been alone. Not even the Covenant knew his exact location, for security purposes. Fuck lot of good it was now.

Two years lost.

Maybe he was slipping.

She took a seat, and looked at him expectantly. He was immaculate, his black clothing free of bloodstains, his sparse hair growing slowly back to wavy locks. Sydney, though, she stared at him and showed nothing.

Two years could change everything. God, he knew. She could be dead inside, but when he'd seen her last she was alive. Alive and growling. Ready to fight anyone and praying it'd be him. Tonight, though, she looked at him and he couldn't see a thing - no hatred, not even disgust.

He sat across from her.

"May I ask why you're here?" he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Without a word she uncapped the lipstick hidden in her pocket, and the nearly-inaudible beep cu through the air.

"10 minutes. There are some things you need to know," she stated.

"You killed my father? Yes. Thank you. I've already been notified," he rasped shortly, like a petulant child. She didn't crack a smile, or punch him in the teeth, or tell him she'd take it all back if she could, or that she wouldn't and was glad.

"Ever been to Rennes?" she asked abruptly.

He moved his head in slight dissension. She was cold tonight, aware of danger and callously ignoring it. Sydney Bristow knew something, and he decidedly didn't.

"There's an old chapel on Des Trente, 2 miles of the Boulevard De La Liberte. It's completely white, pretty deserted. Spend the day there. Make a trip out of it. Have some fun," she said in that dreary monotone. She'd had a speech ready, but it rang hollow in this dark hotel room. She used drab language, to the point, with no room for contradiction. "Bring Allison," she added as she quirked an eyebrow and smirked.

"How did you know I was here?" he said, off-topic.

"L'eglise des ames perdus, Sark. The painting on the wall. You must remember this," she insisted. Her dark hair was falling in her face now, and those thick brown eyes finally coming alive.

"What on earth are you on about, Agent Bristow?" he asked finally.

"Trust me, Sark. I know what I'm talking about."

"Well, that's one of us," he retorted.

"When you go to them to report on tonight's little escapades of yours," she said impatiently, "they'll bring you into a room. It's completely white, of course. There's a painting on the wall.  
church de la Seul. You need to go there first. Go tonight."

She was frayed. Along the seams and straight through the heart, Sark saw it. She was warning him as best she could.

"I'll need a little more to go on than your word," he said harshly.

She smiled.

"I remember."

He sat back, the silence shrieking in his ears.

"Everything."

She was worn, and she was itching to strike.

"You have to remember it when they strap you down, Sark. The architecture is very precise. You can calculate the height by the shadows in the picture if you have to."

"Sydney, what are you talking about?"

"It'll help, Sark. It's a trigger. You have to go there, have a good time. Do something memorable. A life or death situation might be good." Her eyes shone with a hidden joke.

"I swore to Allison that I would kill you."

That stopped her, if only slightly. "Then I suggest you do it soon, or you won't be pulling the trigger for Allison. You'll be doing it for the Covenant."

"You killed my father."

"They'll break you, just like they broke me!" she barked. "You have to remember. When it comes down to it, you have to remember the church, Sark. It'll be all you have left."

In a flash he snatched up the Glock laying inches from his hand. He brought it up simultaneously to the Beretta aimed at his throat.

"Are you suggesting, Sydney, that I am soon to be subjected to -" the word sounded ridiculous as it tripped off his tongue, "- brainwashing?"

She deliberated, then lowered her pistol with exaggeration. He persistently held the Glock aimed at her chest.

"Push comes to shove, Sark, I'll kill you without blinking." He wasn't so sure, and neither was she. "But no one deserves to have their own mind stolen from them. Not even you."

"Touching," he said automatically, though he didn't really mean it, and she didn't really care.

After a careful moment, he said, "You remember then, the last two years, and what was done to you?"

She simply smiled at him.

"And you believe I am soon to be subjected to the same procedure?"

Nothing, not even a spark from those haunted eyes.

"And this - church, you believe, will help me overcome their programming?"

"I'm saying it might help you keep a single shred of yourself," she said heavily. "It's not much, but I would have settled for a memory of walking the dog at that point."

"You don't have a dog," he corrected.

"No."

Another moment.

"Allison is looking for you. I should drag you to the Covenant right now."

"I should drag you back to the CIA right now."

He nodded absently, leaning back with the Glock held poised. "What do you know that the Covenant is so keen on keeping quiet?"

She gave a hollow laugh, and he swore she rolled her eyes. "And you're supposed to be a terrorist," she murmured.

"Why?"

"Why what, Sark?"

"Why tell me this?"

"Because we're even now," she explained. It was so cold, so blunt that he hardly understood.

"Even? You killed my father. Feeding me some cryptic bullshit about a bloody church doesn't make us even, Sydney."

"You murdered Francie Calfo. And nearly killed Will Tippin," she growled. "All tallied up, Sark, you owe me a friend to torture."

"Then why are you here, if you think I owe you? Here to kill me, perhaps? Capture me? I must say, Agent Bristow, you've lacking the initiative."

"Because I got the chance to know Francie."

She was out of her chair now, and walking backwards towards the door. Her Beretta was held defunct at her side.

She unlatched the door of the hotel room, and was preparing to slip out. He wanted to stay still, to jump after her, to hit her and shoot her, to grab her, kiss her. He only then realized his hands were shaking.

She shook her head sadly. Her eyes were dark with tears. "We're even, Sark. Just promise me you'll remember."

Two years lost.


	2. Trapped in Wonderland

-  
**Part 2 : Trapped in Wonderland**  
-  
  
She still smiled sometimes. He'd tell a joke and she'd grin, or she would hug him when he least expected it. He would catch her reading _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, and he'd tease her about it. She'd laugh and tell him he shouldn't have bought it for her if he was going to whine about it.  
  
A month ago he'd moved in, built a door on the den with help from Marshall and Jack and hauled in his stuff from across the street. She was quiet sometimes, but he'd only once heard her wake up and start screaming. Barnett told him Sydney was beginning to recover.  
  
And she called him Eric. The first time she'd said it at the office, Mike had stopped dead and looked about ready to smash that damn smile right off Weiss's face. Mike had always been Vaughn to her. Dixon, Sloane, Derevko. And Sark, but that was his alias. She called Jack "Dad" and him "Eric." Everyone else was relegated to last-name basis only: Sloane, Derevko, Dixon, Sark.  
  
Kendall had called a meeting, and confirmed to them the death of Simon Walker. No had shed a tear; Jack hadn't even blinked. Beside Eric, Sydney made faint a noise somewhere between a giggle and a sob.  
  
One night she disappeared, again.  
  
He had made her dinner. Spaghetti with meatballs and peanut butter on celery sticks, because he'd long ago given up being surprised by this woman and simply accepted that she was perfect, and flawed, and had the weirdest tastes in food that he'd ever encountered. She'd been happy that night, more her old self, joking and complaining with him all through the meal.  
  
She'd kissed him on the cheek as she delivered the remaining dishes to the sink where he was posted. She'd dried the plates with a dishrag, taken tequila shots with him afterwards, and in the morning she'd been gone.  
  
Two days later, Lauren Reed uncovered the identity of Andrian Lazarey's killer.  
  
All Eric could think of was how he'd made her smile.  
  
-  
  
Wandering through the deserted church, all Sark could think of was Agent Sydney fucking Bristow. The woman haunted him; She'd killed his bloody father. For 2 damn years he'd had Boy Scout and the other Hardy Boys poking and prodding him for answers, when all he could tell them was where they could shove it. Not that they'd believed him. More importantly, not that he'd cared. All he knew was that everything in his entire damned life now led to Sydney Bristow.  
  
Allison, for one. Doubtless she'd moved on to other men in his long absence, but now they were reunited, and all she could talk of was revenge against Sydney Bristow.  
  
Irina. Her operation was in near shambles, of course, but he was technically still on her leash. And all she now cared about was finding her daughter and what had happened to her those two years.  
  
Andrian Lazarey, his father. A man he'd never known and never would, care of the lovely Agent Bristow's assassination techniques.  
  
The Covenant. They'd assigned him, their newest and most lethal asset, to track the bitch down and drag her back to them, preferably alive. Preferably.  
  
Now the woman was even eating away at his precious free time. He'd trekked half-way around the globe at 4 in the morning just because she'd told him to, and because she'd looked at him without the disgust he was so accustomed to.  
  
He'd spent 2 years in prison, and he'd spent them thinking of nothing but Sydney Bristow.  
  
The church, he would admit, was remarkable. Bronze gold gilding and chalk-colored pillars, refurbished wooden doors - locked, of course, but only for a moment. The altar was grand and unadorned, and it was a kind of quiet he'd never heard before.  
  
She sat in a pew far in the north corner. She held her face hidden in her hands, and she would have cried if she could remember how.  
  
She let him approach, go so far as touch her shoulder, before she acknowledged him. "Didn't think you'd come," she whispered.  
  
They both waited for the smirk, the cutting remark to snap from his lips. Nothing came, and Sark began to realize the one person he'd ever considered his equal was perhaps simply his better.  
  
She gave him that dead smile, and she stood. When he followed her out, Sark found her rented Trailblazer parked on the street, his Mercedes gone instead.  
  
Sydney fucking Bristow. In the end, everything led him back to her.  
  
-  
  
She laughed aloud when Metallica screamed at her from the speakers. Mozart, she would have guessed, but no. The Black Album pounded in her ears instead.  
  
Sark had left a rather expensive coat, Armani she would guess, and a 9mm. in the glove box. Sydney would have revolted against petty theft 2 years ago, but everything was about image now, and if she wanted his car damnit she would take it.  
  
When she'd woken up in Hong Kong, the world had gone from grey to black. Her first reaction was to find Simon; He would've come if she called him. Poor, stupid Simon. Dead because he'd had faith in her but not their love. Maybe because they'd never called it that; maybe it simply wasn't.  
  
Sometimes breathing was harder for Sydney than lying was. Lies came naturally, twists in the truth, stories crafted on the suspicions and state of mind of the listener. Honesty was what killed her these days.  
  
Honesty to Eric, for one. When she'd returned, when she couldn't handle the questions anymore, he'd asked her things she could answer truthfully. Like how she was feeling, was she hungry, tired, itching to break something - once he'd given her a tiny porcelain figurine and instructed her in all seriousness to hurl it against the wall. By the time it shattered in shards on the carpet, Sydney had been laughing again.  
  
She missed her father, and god how she missed Vaughn. But they had neither of them seen her, talked to her, in more than 2 years. Not about anything true, anyway.  
  
Finally she couldn't take it anymore. She'd come home as a last resort, when her body and resources had run out of defence from the Covenant. She'd let them find her in Hong Kong, waited until they were upon her to fight back. She let them hit her, once, right across the temple. It'd bled for hours, and when she'd finally beaten down the assault team she'd stumbled into an alleyway and very convincingly let her vision fade. It'd felt wonderful, that one forbidden time when she stopped fighting the darkness and let consciousness dissolve.  
  
She didn't know why she'd gone to Sark. Her last orders from the Covenant were to spring him; maybe that's why she'd let him go that scorching afternoon in the Sonora desert. A voice in her head that day had told her to take up that M24 SWS laying inches from her feet and shoot that CIA scientist, snipe away at the Delta Force firing from that damned helicopter. Hearing to that voice, Sydney had been half inclined to turn the rifle on herself and blast away all the Covenant's hard work.  
  
Gunning down the A71 at 80mph flat, Sydney wondered why in the hell she'd thrown away her last chance for happiness just to help a murdering psychopath. Maybe she thought she could save him, help him find redemption and all the glorious bullshit she herself didn't believe in anymore. Maybe they were too alike for her to simply let him fall.  
  
She drove through the night, stopping at her forgotten safehouse in the heart of Etrelles. A neighbor was out in her bathrobe, waiting for her dog on the corner beside the secluded two-story sand-brick. She started with surprise when a Mercedes with no headlights on pulled into the overgrown driveway. "Bienvenue, Julia," she called out.   
  
Sydney turned at the sound, "Merci. Je ne resterai pas longtemps," she answered. "Comment ca va, votre fille?"  
  
The terrier began barking loudly, savagely, placing itself between its owner and Sydney. Sydney became Julia Thorne, and Julia smiled. The neighbor involuntarily shivered, and wished this cold, beautiful woman would leave and never come back to this quiet street where smiling families lived.  
  
"Elle va bien, merci. Bonne nuit," she said hastily, and retreated into the comfortable brownstone across the road. Julia Thorne continued smiling, and watching, until the front door was closed. She almost laughed when she heard the deadlock sliding into place.  
  
She shook away her thoughts, and she was Sydney again, a good person but made of stone. She tapped the bug killer on the dashboard twice, switching it off. The tracker she knew to be placed under the passenger seat immediately began broadcasting its signal.  
  
-  
  
His face was a shade lighter, perhaps, circles under his eyes a tad more pronounced, but the visible effects ended there. He worked to keep the confident efficiency in his step, the staring ice in his eyes. If anyone could tell he'd spent the last 16 hours traveling to France and back, well, kudos was in order.  
  
Allison was there, waiting for him. "Where have you been?" she asked bluntly.  
  
"A personal matter had to be attended to," he answered shortly. "Nothing that concerns you."  
  
"And what about the Covenant?"  
  
"I was referring to you _as_ the Covenant," he said brutally.  
  
She kissed him to show her control, and he let her, because she no longer had it. Merely 10 minutes talking with the infamous Agent Bristow had been enough to reinvent the vicious competitive streak Sark had lost those years in prison. He was Sark again, and he'd be damned if he would let the Covenant play him like a puppet. Mr. Sark worked only for himself.  
  
As she teasingly led him to the bed, that same bed with the Sig Sauer hidden beneath it, Sark could have almost laughed. Oh, she was still enticing, still as sensual as ever, but now he was Sark on the hunt, Sark on the job, Sark doing anything to win. Yes, she was still Allison. But all Sark could think of was how to beat her, beat the Covenant, and of Sydney fucking Bristow.


	3. Firewall

-  
**Part 3 : Firewall**  
-  
  
  White hot and something like pain, the images flashed through his mind. Lazarey, Irina, Allison, Sydney. Four people: his father, his mother, his lover and his enemy. Each had betrayed him but the last.  
  
  Ockley pressed the syringe through the blistered skin at his wrist, and he lost his train of thought.  
  
  The ceiling was white; the floor, the walls, the furniture was white. The only color was grey, the smooth metal of the operating table and the precise tray of instruments.  
  
  He looked over the doctor's shoulder, straining against the straps that held him down, and he saw on the wall the picture, the curious black-and-white photo of a church.  
  
  The church. France. His Mercedes. Sydney. Ah, yes. The enigmatic Miss Bristow. Surely she was still ever the compatriot, her memory butchered, lost and alone, but Cowboy Up, Sydney, your country needs you. Revolutionary, really, that all this time she'd been working her own game.  
  
  She'd told him they were even now, and he had little choice but to believe her. Until he gained the upper, or merely the level hand in their little tug-of-war, he wouldn't dare oppose her. Not since the peak of Irina's power had he seen anyone so poised, so untouched. The difference between mother and daughter, he realized, was that Irina had broken. Inside, Sydney was already ash.  
  
  How many days had it been? Weeks, months, years? Time became filtered in this room, in this wretched little tomb with the ocean breathing against the window. Sark had no way of telling how long Ockley had had him strapped to the cool steel operating table, invading his head with images and sounds; Sights, smells, blood.  
  
  Pain, pleasure, and the color red. Beating against his mind, sizzling in his veins, a taste and smell, no light in the blackness for sight.

  The doctor spoke quietly in his ear.  
  
  "You are a servant, Mr. Sark," Ockley grated. "You are powerful and you are weak. You are only what we make you."  
  
  23 feet high, 9 inches, he would guess, judging by the shadows sweeping across the ancient archway. Sydney had shown him - Sydney.  
  
  Ignore Ockley. Ignore the outside world. His went through the mental catalogue again.  The four main players in his life: his father, his mother, his lover and his enemy.  
  
  His father had abandoned him, Sark couldn't even remember his face.  
  
  His mother had died when he was a toddler, but Irina had filled that role to her own ends. She'd betrayed him when she left him to rot in CIA custody while she cavorted off on a fool's errand with her former husband.

  His lover, Allison, she was using him for whatever she could get.  
  
  How sad, he thought. Only his enemy had yet to betray him.  
  
  Now that was a comforting thought. Sydney Bristow, ass-kicking CIA champion, was the only person who had ever helped him for anything but her own gain. Well, not entirely true: doubtless the Covenant would use him to hunt her down once programmed, so there was some profit, at least. But she'd seemingly given up another chance at life in L.A., risked death by catching him alone, revealed secrets that were no doubt dangerous to her well-being, and all for his benefit. So that he could look across the room at that damned picture and have some defence from the sickening whispers assaulting his consciousness.  
  
  It was remarkable, really. The only person who'd ever shown him compassion was a woman who would put a bullet between his eyes and then go out for sushi. How... quaint.  
  
  He settled onto the operating table, closing his eyes with his customary smirk returning full-force. Ockley pressed a second needle into the inside of his elbow. Let them come, Sark thought of the savage voices. If his enemy wouldn't hurt him, certainly he was safe from his own mind.  
  
-  
  
"Find Sydney Bristow."  
  
  Fools. Of course he would bloody find her. Just not to kill her.   
  
  "Kill her."  
  
  So damned predictable.  
  
  It was odd, to be sure. A faint voice in his ears telling him to agree with this monkey seated before him. Easily ignored, of course, but some nerve therapy would be required after this was resolved. He forced himself to nod briskly.  
  
  Allison was in the corner, watching. Amused. She'd get the treatment next week, he guessed. Damned if he told her the trick to eluding the procedure.  
  
  "She disappeared from the Los Angeles 4 months ago. The CIA is currently investigating, with little success. No one has seen her since."  
  
  Callaghan watched the blond man, who stared at him with blank blue eyes and almost smirked. So like Sydney Bristow, he thought. Weaker, perhaps, but not by much. He would have to be terminated quickly.  Used and discarded like the dozens of agents Ockley had tested his work on.  
  
Mr. Sark, it seemed, would not stay under their control for long.  
  
But for now. . .  
  
  "We've discovered a safehouse in Greece, under the ownership of Julia Thorne. Go there. She may have left clues, or she may return there at some point. Check it out and report to me when you know anything," Callaghan ordered dismissively.  
  
"He's smiling," Allison told him after Sark closed the door behind him.  
  
"By report, he always is," Callaghan answered without concern.  
  
  She slid from her seat and followed the assassin out. Callaghan caught her before she could leave.  
  
  "I'd like you to check in with Dr. Ockley tomorrow. You need to be re-evaluated after your little spat with Agent Bristow. Three months ago, wasn't it?" he said, glancing up at her from the file scattered on his desk.  
  
  "Four," she corrected.  
  
-  
  
  Four months. Four freaking months he'd spent in the Covenant's cage. Blood pounded in his ears, and that horrid little hissing voice tore at his concentration. Sark's eyes watered as his fingers flew over the keyboard.  
  
  Free, for the moment. Four months of attempted brainwashing had done nothing other than almightily piss him off. For four months holding the mask in place, pretending to submit helplessly to the drivel Ockley pledged his life to. Tonight was his test mission, his first errand for the Covenant under the alias of their new pet zombie.  
  
  He'd kill them all.  
  
  It'd be suicide to go in blindly. No, he needed to know what Sydney knew. He'd disassemble the puzzle that was the Covenant, and, unlike Sydney, he would use it to destroy them, instead of hiding behind a mask of amnesia.  
  
  Ingenious, really. How better to keep your knowledge hidden than feigning ignorance? His plan was far more simple: find the head honcho, track him down, and leave an early Christmas present placed beneath his car.  
  
  Smash and grab wasn't his style, truth be told, but the pain throbbing through his veins didn't give a shit.  
  
And where better to look than the public library.  
  
  He sat in a darkened corner; it was late, and deserted. He was posted at a battered computer station, typing on a sticky keyboard while listening with one ear for a sign of attack.  
  
  Firewall after firewall. The disk he'd swiped almost by habit from the modem of Joshua Callaghan had numerous safeties, none of which accounted for much when Sark had resolve.  
  
  Finally, a contained file. Once decoded, translated roughly from German, and placed in correct order, a list. Dated January 9th, 2001, four months before Sydney's disappearance.  
  
  Gregory Alden, Joshua Callaghan, Arvin Sloane, Samantha Laroche, Andrian Lazarey, Finn Ryden, Irina Derevko.  
  
  Sark leaned back, considering. Gregory Alden, he knew, was dead. Eating dinner with his girlfriend on Friday evening and he fell from his chair in convulsions. Police had found arsenic in his wineglass. He'd been an arms dealer, prominent in the Czech Republic, a defector from the United States.  
  
  Samantha Laroche, the turn-coat scientist. She'd worked with The Man on occasion, a mastermind on contagious diseases. Found dead at the bottom of a park fountain, a hypodermic dart still lodged in her kneecap.  
  
  Andrian Lazarey, a well-known businessman moonlighting as a crime boss, found dead in his office, his throat sliced with a letter-opener.  
  
  Pressing the release, Sark pocketed the disk and closed out the window. He erased the cache and set a time-release firewall on the software. Sydney, it seemed, had been hunting.


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

-  
**Part 4 : Smoke and Mirrors  
**-  
  
The mirror, perhaps, is the greatest of man's achievements. It tells us the truth, tells us what we see and what is hidden behind us. It can show us lies, with light reflecting off its surface, with darkness shimmering at its core. All magic inevitably stemmed from a mirror. The greatest of magicians got their start from a colored box and twin strategically-placed sheets of glass. We can look into it and see our reflection, how others see us or how we see ourselves. And mirrors can be broken.  
  
It is the greatest of our creations because it tells truth, and tells lies, or something close to in between. It merely shows us what we need to see, reality or illusion, and that, at least, is something true.  
  
-  
  
To the rhythmic pound of bullets dancing after her feet, she tore down the driveway. Oh, they were not pleased, she thought. Not pleased at all.  
  
She sprinted out of the loading alley, vaulting onto the trunk of a parked car and springing over the roof. She tucked her head forward and somersaulted down onto the hood, dropping momentarily behind the front bumper as 8.60mm. buckshot shattered the windshield.  
  
As she was preparing for another burst, an unexpected round of shots hailed down from her left, from the warehouse across the street. The Mercedes was parked around the corner. She was pinned down behind the beige-colored Honda.

"Typical," she muttered in irritation, and hid the stolen bracelet in her jacket. Another spread from the sniper in the warehouse, punching into the black metal of the bumper she crouched beside. Grunting in frustration, she pulled the rifle strapped across her back off and adjusted pull length.  
  
Sydney was familiar with the weapon, a Dakota T-76 Longbow she'd "borrowed" from Simon's cache in San Francisco. She remembered the look on his face with crystal clarity, that blistering day in Bangui when they'd been trapped by Republic guards and she'd unloaded the gun without a word of explanation. He'd been pleased and amused, called her "his own personal little klepto", as he'd loaded round after round of .338 Lapua ammunition into the rifle. Smiling, she'd taken out the nest of policemen hunting them one at a time.

In perfect conditions, the T-76 had a range of 1609 meters; today the wind was whipping at her hair and rain was kicking up. The sniper in the warehouse was a rough 1200 meters; the men approaching from the raided Covenant facility were 600 away at best.  
  
Taking a gamble, she sprang forward, catching her heel on the edge of the bumper and flipping backwards into the air. The sniper fired; a 7-bullet spread tore through the men behind her, and she landed in a cartwheel onto the pavement, pulled the rifle against her cheek and fired once. The .338 caliber shot sliced through the partially open window and burrowed into the skull of the rifleman posted in the warehouse.  
  
Running out of options, she fell to a crouch, and swung the T-76 around to face the men chasing her.  
  
Their sniper's accidental bullets had hindered them, killing one and injuring another. Three were healthy, and fired their pistols rapidly at their mark.  
  
Double shots tore scarlet rivulets in her left bicep and grazed her hip. Sydney sprang sideways and pumped the trigger as she fell behind the corner. The rifle clicked morosely, the trigger echoing against the now empty chamber.  
  
Flinging the gun over her shoulder, Sydney launched upward, catching the frail metal piping of a green-canvas overhang outlining the quaint, empty storefront of a neighborhood cafe. It was dark, starless. The endless gunfire rang deafening in the air.  
  
As her opponents rounded the corner, she floored two with a vicious double axe-kick, using her momentum to swing and release, dropping to the pavement behind the third. He spun directly into her striking fist.  
  
She took her time unlocking the Mercedes as the goons whimpered on the pavement. Sydney wondered when this had all stopped being exhilarating to her.  
  
-  
  
God, it was good to be back. The Motherland had never held the breathless danger the grand States had held for him. Maybe it had something to do with the sniveling heroes employed in governing them; In America, he was free, indeed.  
  
Idly he wondered what the lovely Miss Bristow was doing now. Brooding, alone with her dark secrets, no doubt. He pictured her in a bookstore coffee shop, silent and intriguing, looking like she was carrying the whole bloody world on her shoulders.   
  
It was her fault, really. She never should have contacted him if she didn't want him snooping.  
  
He leaned patiently against the blue Audi, fingering the cool metal of the Browning pistol hidden deep in his coat pocket. As the door opened and the security siren buzzed clearance, he called out, "Mr. Flinkman."  
  
The pair glanced up at the name; She looked confused and instantly wary, doubly so when Marshall sidestepped in front of her. The blond assassin smirked at him.  
  
"I've been waiting for you," Sark stated.  
  
It was dangerous, carelessly so. They stood in the CIA parking lot, for Christ's sake. But catching him alone, or nearly so, was the best course of action to heighten and utilize Marshall Flinkman's inherit nervousness.  
  
"It's good to see you again, Marshall," Sark continued cruelly. "And this must be your lovely - wife?"  
  
"Girlfriend," Carrie snapped reflexively. Again, Sark's feral smirk appeared, aimed at Marshall.  
  
"Oh, M-Mr. Sark... Hello," Marshall managed, pushing backwards against Carrie. She compliantly took a step back, then another.  
  
Sark straightened, and advanced, closing the distance between them in a moment. "You needn't be worried, Mr. Flinkman," he assured. "You and your" – he coughed slightly, unsure of himself - "paramour, here, will not be harmed if you comply with my request."  
  
Without waiting for a reply, he withdrew a disk from his breastpocket and held it out to the technician. "I need this decoded. I've worked through the main files, but I need to know if there is anything hidden in the safeties. I need it done tonight."  
  
When Marshall hesitated, Sark glanced pointedly at Carrie's swollen stomach. "As I said, neither you nor Miss Bowman will be injured. May I ask when your lovely child is due?"  
  
The last remaining bit of color drained from Marshall's face, and Carrie looked ready to either cry or haul up and pop Sark one in the face. "I'll see what I can do," Marshall said in a panic.  
  
"Excellent." Sark opened the door to the Audi; the door Marshall had locked this morning. "Ladies first."  
  
-  
  
It was an awakening experience, to say the least. The Flinkman residence was full of color and noise. Marshall's mother answered the door, staring at Sark with a critical eye before smiling and inviting him in. Marshall haltingly told her Sark was a business associate, and Carrie led her into the kitchen, and that was the last he heard from her.  
  
The den, or at least a wide room cluttered with technology and a couch, was where Marshall settled to work. Sark stood vigilant behind him, once or twice drawing out the Browning to toss absently from hand to hand. At these moments, Marshall would let out a shuddering breath, and type with renewed fervor.  
  
"There's a main file," he read. "It's already been unblocked. Kind of a mess, too. It looks like it might have been damaged when it was forced open."  
  
Snorting in annoyance and self-reproach, Sark ordered him to reconstruct the lost information.  
  
His blood bubbling with anxiety, Marshall set immediately back to work. He pounded the enter key, rapidly reading through the intricate maze of characters.  
  
Suddenly his fingers tripped over the keyboard, fell dormant onto the desktop. Sark stiffened, leaning over his shoulder.  
  
"Sydney," Marshall muttered.  
  
"What? What is it?" Sark demanded, gripping the man's shoulder until his fingernails bit into skin beneath the cotton shirt.  
  
"She - nothing. It's nothing," Marshall said at once, and moved to continue typing.  
  
It a fluid, practiced movement, Sark seized the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed the suddenly-there Browning just beneath Marshall's ear.  
  
"Now, little mouse," he breathed in a grating, honeyed tone, "tell me what you see, or I might... just... break... my... word."  
  
"It's a code," Marshall said abruptly, "written into the securities. Look, it's the same sequence." He pointed to the stream of white text on the black background. "Each different firewall, or whatever, they're all in sequence."  
  
Sark stared at the screen. Absently, unceremoniously, he jerked his hand and sent Marshall tumbling to the floor. He slid into the vacated seat, pressing the 'down' arrow to scroll through the files.  
  
A date, a location... and a prophecy. He almost laughed when he saw the reference. Rambaldi's notebook, currently in possession of the Covenant. The artifact rotting in the CIA vaults, it seemed, was a fake.  
  
Marshall was valiantly trying to crawl away. Without looking away from the screen, Sark lifted the Browning and fired. A bullet frayed the carpet centimeters from the technician's hand. "Stay put, Mr. Flinkman."  
  
A knock, a frantic voice at the door Sark had locked behind them. Sark ignored it, removing the disk and slipping it into his coat. Marshall pushed himself against the wall as the assassin approached.  
  
"Thank you for your time," Sark said simply, and wrenched open the door. Carrie was on the other side; She darted past Sark before he could stop her, had he wanted to. He headed into the kitchen.  
  
A pistol whipped out and struck him across the jaw. There, beside the refrigerator cluttered with magnets and cautionary quips clipped from the newspaper, was the ever-caustic Agent Vaughn.  
  
Before the CIA puppy could use the business end of his Beretta, Sark righted himself and delivered a chop-block to Vaughn's elbow. The gun clattered to the floor, and with his other arm Sark seized the annoying, twit of a man by his pretty face and slammed his head against the freezer door.  
  
A gun cocked from across the room, and Sark had barely dived beside the cabinets as bullets riddled the kitchen. Agent Weiss, field commander and Vaughn's trusted lackey, fired on Sark with a squad of agents at his back.  
  
Feet sliding on the polished tiles, Sark lurched forward, arms over his head as he burst through the glass door. Outside, he rolled to his feet, his Browning up and blasting. Limb and hip shots, nothing fatal. The small team that had remained outside crumpled onto the garden path as he jogged past.  
  
Damned woman. He'd cut the phone lines and confiscated their cell phones, of course, but Carrie, or, god forbid, Marshall's deplorable mother, must have found an alternative form communication. Whatever the route, the CIA was here, and they were not pleased.  
  
Uttering every swear word in the two dozen languages he spoke, Sark reloaded as he ran, bullets sizzling in his wake. The cool, irregular plastic of the decoded disk sat securely in the pocket, just over his heart. 


	5. Tinder

-  
**Part 5 : Tinder**  
-  
  
  Allison spoke in his ear.  
  
  "Where have you been?"  
  
  Irritating woman. What would have been desire a month, hell a _week_ ago, Sark now only felt disgust. Disgust, distrust, distaste. Together, disinterest.  
  
  "I'm on the trail of the lovely Miss Bristow," his voice flat, clipped.  
  
  "'Lovely'?" She sounded petulant now, feeling her control waning.  
  
  "She's quite an enigma," Sark observed.

  Silence.  "She's not an easy woman to find."  "I never had much problem finding her."  Cutting, sarcastic. A caged animal.  "Beating her is the trick," he answered.  "Report to Callaghan the second you have any news."  Silence.  She hung up.  He put away the phone, head spinning. Those damned voices, and his vision was beginning to blur. He hadn't slept, untested-drug-free, for four months. Not since Sydney had shown up in his hotel room, telling them they were even.

  Even. What a dull thing to be.  
-

  She spent just over seven months in the custody of the Covenant.  Agent Bristow wasn't the first person to receive the procedure, certainly not the last, but it had never been used on someone so trained to resist torture. They'd cut her, bruised her, burned her and frozen her, and still that unquenchable fire in her eyes had flickered. Mental pain next, horrifying images day and night, dream stimulations when she slipped out of consciousness. It had taken four months to break her and another two to remake her. One throwaway month used on testing her.  Into the field and back again; all it took was one mission in France to do away all their work.  Her mark had been an easy one - a French diplomat nosing too close to one of the Covenant's operations. A dose of antipyrine, into the cloudy glass of Petruese he drank every evening, to pawn it off as a heart attack. One witness, leading her on a wild chase through the winding roads of Des Trente. Her report had been vague, and Ockley had noticed an odd sort of flicker in her eyes when she looked at him. At the time he'd written it off as stress, and increased the dosage of her too-heavy medication.  Two weeks later, she'd given Ockley the scar he bore, a jagged line scraping down his collarbone. It was a miracle that he was alive, and Sydney Bristow didn't believed in miracles.  She'd ripped the straps holding her down straight off the metal gurney, lodged a palmed scalpel in Ockley's throat and ran. There were guards, of course. She held her head low and shot through them like a dervish. Three survived to enjoy slashed pensions.  She disappeared for the remainder of the year, resurfacing every now and then, flauntingly using her Covenant alias Julia Thorne. With her, always, was Simon Walker. He'd met her on her second outing for the Covenant, busting into a vault together in Algeria. Callaghan had suggested killing him, but he'd suggested it in vain. There was an otherwise unanimous vote: Simon Walker, though he himself easy enough to eliminate, held far too many secrets to dispatch. He was valuable to anyone with enough money, a favorite pet of many crime bosses paying to keep their hands clean. He had too many allies to simply kill.  Agent Bristow worked tirelessly those seventeen months when she was dead to her family and friends back in L.A. For reasons that were his own, Simon Walker never left her side.

  Together they uncovered the founders of the Covenant, the treatments used in programming her, and the lasting effects of the procedure. That hollow little voice in her head would be her companion for life.  No amount of doctoring or therapy would ever completely purge the blackness implanted by the Covenant. Most importantly, she found out why.

  Everything in life comes full circle. A story is never done until there is one hero or one villain left standing, and no more. Milo Rambaldi had a flair for the dramatic.  In his notebook he outlined a story, about a brave, violent woman. A piece of his story went into each of his creations; All assembled, it acted as a mirror. It could show you what was truth, or it could show you what you needed to be true. All assembled, it was nothing. An odd, irregular creation with no use at all. It's surface was dull, and shiny, and reflective.Agent Bristow knew. She would die in the end, or maybe live. All she could do was act it out to its finish.  Memorizing the decrypted report, Sark wordlessly gave praise to the neurotic Marshall Flinkman.-  He'd known Simon Walker, known him well. They'd met at school, spent hours on the rooftop overlooking the gym, spying on the athletic girls and fantasizing about the life ahead of them. Simon had always aimed high - money, girls, brains, charisma. Finn had been more realistic. He'd looked at the dark-haired boy and said that he'd claw his way up until his nails were torn and bloody, if he had to. Simon would look sickened, repulsed, so Finn would shrug, and say, metaphorically, of course.  The day he met Julia Thorne, Simon Walker died.  She was a pretty little thing, all buck and fire, black-eyed and frosted blonde hair. Finn had followed her progress through Callaghan, listening to impatient updates while he took care of the blacker side of business. Callaghan had been boastful, of course; His newest gadget could break the barriers set by Irina Derevko and the masters before her. The moment she stepped off the plane, Finn Ryden had felt for the first time what it was to be powerless.  The second she laid eyes on him, he felt what it was to be pierced, deep and fatally, to the core and back again. She'd noted every weakness, every strength, every thought that ever went through his head. He was left-handed; He walked with a limp in his right leg that he worked tirelessly to conceal. He could shoot a rabbit across a field, blindfolded. He preferred crippling shots to fatal ones. Then she'd moved her gaze to the dark-haired man at his shoulder, and never bothered to take another glance at Finn.  Everything about her had infuriated him; Simon, his best friend since grade school. Their fucking _mothers_ had played bridge together on Sundays, for Christ's sake. He was gone, first symbolically then physically, all because of Sydney Bristow, daughter of The Man and prodigy in the game of espionage.  He'd kill the little princess.-  Smirking, Sark ran a gloved hand over the smooth black metal of his long-lost Mercedes. Amazing. She swung around to face him and barely even bated an eye. Fitting, perhaps. She was still dead, or thought herself to be.  Grunting in exaggerated annoyance, she reached into her pocket and flicked him the keys. "Not even a scratch, I swear," she murmured.  Exhaling silently, he followed her without invitation. She shot him a questioning, bemused look as she unlocked the front door.  "You have a thing for France," he noted.  "I find their driving laws to be useful in our line of work," she deadpanned. "How'd you find me?"  "You disappeared just 10 minutes after I saw you in Rennes. You're good, Sydney, but you can't simply vanish."Again, she held that frightening, bemused look. "I did 2 years ago, didn't I?"  He was astonished by the interior. Outwardly it was in shambles, vines creeping along the woodwork, the porch fallen to termites. Inside was leather, and metal, and smooth, seamless surfaces. The walls were black, the carpet grey. Still computers lined the living room wall, and an imposing black-metal case sat locked in the corner.  She caught his eye, and half-laughed. "I'd say help yourself, but I'm assuming you're already armed if you came here to kill me."  "Yes," he replied. "But I came here to talk. The Browning is merely for my protection."  "From?"  He smiled at her.  Grinning ruefully, Sydney caught her heel on the edge of the coffee table, unzipping the cuff of her black cargo pants to remove the dagger sheathed in her boot. Before his eyes she disassembled her armory, removing the second throwing knife from her other boot, and the twin 9mm. Ultrastar pistols holstered on her right hip and thigh. She winced guardedly when she unbuckled the belt, and he saw it. The dull black material of her jacket was torn and stained purple, and at her hip there was blood.  "You're hurt," he stated.  "Perceptive little son of a bitch, aren't you?" she lashed, carelessly disassembling the magnificently expensive sniper rifle she'd carried slung across her narrow shoulders.  "Was Lazarey a bitch, then? I never knew," Sark responded easily, sitting unbidden on the cushioned leather loveseat in the center of the room.Sydney efficiently unlatched the sighter and locked the chamber shut. The safety feature, he saw, had been taken out altogether. "What do you want, Sark?" She was done (with his games.  "My 300 million dollar inheritance, a little house in New Jersey with a white fence to call home, and a decent glass of Merlot. It's what the Covenant wants that's got me curious,"  She gave him a withering look as she locked away the rest of her weaponry. Progress, progress.  "They've sent me to kill you, as you assumed. Now, judging by your willingness to effectively save my life and forfeit your own, or should I say a certain facet of your life, at least, in the process, I'm guessing you want something from me."  "My, aren't we the optimist?" she muttered.  "Name your price, Miss Bristow," he said tersely.  "The Rambaldi notebook."  How embarrassing. The detached, impassive, heartless assassin literally choked on his teeth in surprise.  "The Rambaldi - Sydney, if you needed the bloody notebook, why didn't you just let Boy Wonder and his crack team of lapdogs draw you up a transcript? Certainly you realize that the notebook in in the CIA's possession. You stole the damned thing."  "Yes," she agreed. "And I want it back. The original."  "Why?"  Finally Sydney turned, and looked him in the face. He was older, more beaten. His colorless skin glowed virulently against the dark circles under his eyes, which, she was amused to note, were still made of ice. Prison hadn't broken him, and neither, it seemed, had the Covenant.  Without a word she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the bracelet; A set of rough-cut harlequin opals on a frayed gold string.  "Good lord, is that -?" Sark demanded, and couldn't resist a laugh as he leaned forward in wonder.  It was old, extremely valuable, and a piece of the famed Rambaldi puzzle. The jewels were oddly shaped, irregularly cut to form an as-of-yet indecipherable code.  Sydney stepped onto the tiled floor outlining the kitchenette boxed into the living room. She dropped the bracelet to the ground, and smashed it under her boot.  Excuse the distasteful and wholly unoriginal language, he thought, but _Holy fucking shit_.  Sark had her against the wall and pinned, his hand around her throat, before he ever considered how badly the caveman approach ever worked with Sydney Bristow.  Upon reflection, the move was ill advised, to say the least. She winded him with a jackknife punch to the sternum, and swept his legs out from beneath him. He yanked her down with him, and she hissed in pain when he clutched her upper arm.  Sydney was off the ground in an instant, rolling away from Sark and performing a spotless kip-up, snapping her legs up to her chest then forward, using the momentum to flip to her feet. She'd gained strength since Sark had last fought her - she pounded him in the face with a snap kick as he sprang from the floor.Hating himself for the sheer blatantness of the maneuver, Sark lunged, wrapped his arms around her waist, and tackled her linebacker-style. She went down hard, her head striking the coffee table with a crack. He pinned her ruthlessly, holding her still, squeezing the bullet wound on her bicep. She didn't flinch, or make a noise. Eyes that would have spit contempt two years ago were now merely lifeless.  "What's the plan, Sydney?" he gritted. "Kill your enemies, destroy the prophecy, and throw your life away? Is that it?"  She wouldn't answer. She was barely even listening.  "Do you think blood with cure your wounds?" he suddenly yelled in her face. "Do you think killing, cheating and lying your way out will save you? Do you think revenge will ever make you whole again?"  He shook her then, violenty, thrashing her body back and forth until her head snapped against the trodden carpet.  "Vengeance leaves you_ nothing_, Sydney. You can cease to live, but your mind goes on. Keep going long enough and all you'll have left is torment," he barked. "And believe me, Agent Bristow, I _know_."  She didn't move, wouldn't speak. Hardly even looked at him with those despicably dead eyes.He could explain it, perhaps, if he'd wanted to. Sydney Bristow was his equal in many, in most ways. She was the best at her job, ruthless and resourceful. Yet she'd been better than him, always, because she was alive when he had died years before he'd ever met her. She'd lived this life until it had broken her, and still she had always found something to laugh about, someone who made her smile. It had given Sark an unreasonable hope that redemption was not unattainable, that this life didn't kill everyone and everything it touched.  Sydney Bristow was dying inside, and some remnant of humanity would not allow Sark to let her.  So he shook her, screamed at her, beat her bloody and finally, kissed her. He clawed away her clothing and still she did nothing, moved not an inch, didn't even whisper the hatred-filled curses he was accustomed to hearing from her red mouth. He pawed, caressed, tore his way into her because she refused to resist him. She tasted like vanilla and smoke.

  He let out a triumphant, violent laugh when she suddenly raked her nails across his bare back. The beautiful face he'd battered moments before leaned forward to kiss him, and she cried out when his teeth scraped her shoulder and he drove deeper into her, feeling the nearly extinguished fire inside her crackling to life.  
  
  The first time that he felt anything in years, and Sark couldn't name it, could barely even form a thought. It was disgust, distrust, distaste, and something dangerously close to happiness.


	6. Method to Madness

-

Part 6 : Method to Madness  
-

"_In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming_,"  
- H.P. Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu"

-  
  
  She wondered why time, unlike anything else, could not be altered. Life and death were decided with a single bullet.  Misery and happiness depended solely on the whims of the people you meet.

  Time was the only thing concrete.-  He found himself inexplicably running the unfair comparison between Allison Doren and Sydney Bristow.  Allison was ice, and sweat, and the human equivalent of a colorless Rubik's cube. Intriguing, seductive, and ultimately thankless.  Sydney was silk, and embers. Her breath against his neck was something lighter than air, with the warning scent of clear smoke. She was fire on dry wood.  He then wondered when two days of madness and three oddly relaxing hours of sex had turned him into a blathering dramatist.  Well, he knew, of course - it was the presence of the woman curled beside him, sleeping timidly against his chest. But that was no excuse. He was a bloody _assassin_. And he hated the unaccountable grin that crept across his face and simply wouldn't go away.  Neither of them were at their prime: he'd done quite a job on her, bruising and scratching every inch of her body in his frantic, and now lamentable, attempt to awaken her spirit. And he himself was a sight to see - her brutal snap kick had bloodied his nose, her striking fist had left his chest throbbing, and her paltry sweep-trip had left his tailbone aching, though that embarrassing little tidbit would be carried with him to the grave. And that damnable grin of his refused to disappear.  Sark ran his fingers softly along her skin, making silent amends for the hours of sanctioned abuse he'd unleashed upon her. Along her neck, over the scabbing bullet wound along her arm, down her brittle fingers. Along her breasts, her stomach, pausing at the vile scar flawing her white body. He'd noticed it earlier, the moment he ripped the jacket off her shoulders, but he'd ignored it. They were both scarred; he wore his with indifference.  "Nasty little thing, isn't it?" She spoke into his neck, sending unaccustomed shivers through his veins.  He almost snorted in annoyance. The woman had to start warning him before she did anything else unpredictable.  "Yes," he answered lightly. "Though I have one on my thigh that makes yours look like a scrape in need of a band-aide."  She laughed mirthlessly, and he could feel her breath slow against his skin. She was beginning to retreat once more; he instantly resumed his candid examination of her physical perfections.  "You know," he continued, "I shudder to think what your valiant Agent Vaughn would say to this little tête-à-tête."  He felt a loathsome sort of satisfaction when her eyes compliantly filled with tears. It was consoling, at least, to know that she still cried. It was good for the soul, or so he'd heard.  "I doubt he would care," she answered in a monotone, and moved to sit up.  Aggressively he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back down.  "Perhaps not, Agent Bristow," he hissed in her ear. "But what of your father? Your mother, even? All your friends? Agent Weiss? What would they think of you, cavorting about with the enemy, murdering in cold blood those who wronged you and destroying the artifacts they've spent the last five years fighting for?"  Sydney went still again, and he could feel the beast in her heart rearing to snap.  "Don't talk about Eric Weiss," she said quietly. "Don't ever say a word about him. Understood, Sark?"  Perplexed, Sark released her. She rose silently, and walked into the bathroom. The door locked behind her.  He let out a breath, and fell back against the satin pillow. The room was suffocating and cold, the only furnished area in the house besides the living room and bathroom. Hours earlier he'd carried Sydney through the creaking halls of the still French townhouse, stumbling into the bedroom and collapsing atop her and the black-sheeted bed. It'd been unmade when they'd arrived, untouched in the months since she and Simon Walker had sought asylum, here, in the obscurity of disappearance. Sark laughed at the thought. Would he end up just as Walker had, alone and betrayed, doubting himself and the world merely because Sydney Bristow had loved him and left him?  He dressed quickly, smiling to himself. Of course he would. What better way was there for a man to die?-  He searched his pocket and found the keys to his Mercedes gone.  Again.  Bloody woman.  One more thing to add to the list of 'Infuriating Bristow Quirks', right up there along with their seeming inability to let Sark rest.  Bloody woman.  It was a race against time, really, something Sark had notoriously bad experience with. He called ahead for the plane to be prepped and ready before he got there.  Sydney couldn't have all the fun.-  Firenze, Italy.  A hazy, raucous town, so different from the dead stillness of the safehouse in Estrelles. Neon lights and voices shouted at her from all angles.  She shouted right back.  Sydney Bristow would have been uncomfortable, blushing in the snug miniskirt and shoes amusingly reminiscent of go-go boots. Sydney Bristow would have stoutly refused to go outside in such an, eh hem, interesting outfit.  Sydney Bristow died in a fire blazing in her apartment two years ago._  Almost_, she told herself as she walked the streets. Almost died, but not quite. And the person to prove it to her had been a man who killed, tortured and generally pissed the hell off everyone he met. Well, ain't that somethin'.  "Vino bianco, per favore."  She smiled to the bartender. Her Italian was shaky; it had been a while.  He nodded, and turned to usher to her request.  Beside her, Arvin Sloane smiled.  "Permettalo, il mio dolce," he offered, in an accent even worse than hers.  Honestly, thought Sark, leaning against the bar separated by a half-dozen other patrons and listening through the bug he'd placed on Sloane's collar, can't either of them speak simple Italian?  "I must say, this is a pleasant surprise. You had us all extremely worried, Sydney," Sloane explained, turning to grin ruefully at her.  "I know about the Covenant," Sydney announced bluntly. "I saw the tape. Your little meeting,"  "Bloody woman," Sark muttered aloud, and ignored the curious glance of the ivy-leaguer sipping a Fresca beside him.  "Qui siete, ma'am," grunted the bartender, placing Sydney's white wine before her.  Sark's opinion of her tastes, in beverages if not in career choices, sky-rocketed.  Sloane appeared ready to retreat to his rat hole. He glanced at the conspicuous bodyguards he now fitted himself with.  "I've seen the list. You were in charge of finances, right? Of course, you just rack in the money from your little peace organization." She wanted to hurt something now.  Sark was now chanting, "Bloody woman" as if it were his mantra. His hand in his coat pocket, he attached the silencer to his Ruger.  She leaned forward, a strange, seductive woman clad in white leather and oddly alluring knee-high boots, with a shock of platinum hair and more makeup than a squad of California cheerleaders smearing her lovely doe eyes. She leaned forward, and touched her press-on nail to the pulsing vein beneath Sloane's unshaven jawline. She smiled.  Unfathomably at a time like this, Sark wished she wouldn't. Smirking was _his _thing, really.  "Bloody woman," Sark repeated one last time, and shot Sloane discreetly behind the shoulder blades as he passed them on his way out.  The old man fell forward into Sydney.  Bullets, everywhere, exploded in the air over the loud melee of dance music. Sloane's bodyguards had decided to work for their pay. Stifling a cry, Sydney toppled backwards, Sloane's (literal and metaphorical) dead weight dragging her to the floor. A bullet sizzled into Sloane's neck, spattering through into the carpet inches from Sydney's face.  "Bloody, bloody, _bloody_ woman." She was pinned, seconds away from death. The patrons were screaming, oblivious, running and staying put. Only a few had noticed the gunfire yet, and the panic was beginning to kick in. Sark fired twice, taking down one of Sloane's men, a shot in each kneecap. There were four others - three closing in on Sydney, the other guarding the exit.  Sark had eliminated another when a set of rough hands closed around his throat and spun him, hard, into the wall. His vision blurred, and he tasted the sweet, metallic taste of blood sweep over his tongue.  There was nothing for it; Sydney grabbed hold of Sloane's body and tumbled to her feet, dragging him in front of her. Bullet's punched through the dead man, clipping her across the jaw. Feeling all the anesthetic heartlessness of the move, Sydney hurled her lifeless enemy into the line of bodyguards firing away at her. Hiking her 6-inch heel on a chair leg, she flipped sideways into an aerial cartwheel, shots streaking past her to bite deep into the wall lined with rows of shattering alcohol bottles. She landed on her feet, turning on her toes to back flip behind an overturned table. Ammunition riddled the polished wood.  "I knew the espionage field was going to waste. Is it too much to ask for my assailants to at least remember to release the safety on their firearm?"  That voice. That damned cocky, British voice. She glanced over her shoulder to see an ever-cavalier Sark insulting the Dollar Store goon who held a pistol to his head. The bodyguard wasn't even watching behind him.  Without a moment's hesitation Sydney snatched up the broken shard of wineglass littering the floor, and threw it shuriken-style. Buried in his spinal chord, Sark's captor began screaming. Sark silenced him by jacking the gun from his hands, placing it beneath the man's chin, and squeezing the trigger.  Turning her attention back to her current peril, Sydney caught the middle table leg between her feet and kicked. It smashed into the advancing pair of attackers, and she sprang to her feet to deliver a roundhouse kick to the third.  She sprinted towards the exit, not bothering to see if Sark followed. By the door, another of Sloane's men fell with a perfect 3-bullet spread buried in his chest.  "Nice grouping," she commented over her shoulder, jogging up the narrow steps leading from the trendy Italian dance club.  "I aim to please," Sark answered, and winced at the admittedly terrible pun.  They ran together, to the sound of footsteps pounding after them. Sark was inevitably reminded of the many times it had been Sydney chasing him, instead of beside him.  She turned abruptly, darting down a lightless alley.  Bloody woman.  He quickly retraced his steps, rounding the corner to follow her.  Just like old times, her fist connected with his face. He spun and fell, fittingly, onto the hood of the waiting Mercedes.  "Why are you here?" she snarled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the hood.  "Mind the suit," he said vaguely.  "_Why_, Sark? Why'd you kill Sloane?"  He seized hold of her and rolled, pivoting around to land with her weathered body between him and the pavement. "I did it for you."  "Fuck off, Sark. I don't need you," she spat, grasping his wrists and twisting. Grunting, he let up a bit, allowing her room to breathe.  "May we possibly talk about this when we're not in mortal danger?" he asked politely, panting for air.  Gritting her teeth, she threw him off, climbing unsteadily to her feet. In a second the door was open, and she slid into the driver's seat. He moved quickly to the passenger's side. It was locked.  "Sydney -" he began, but she shook her head.  She shifted the gear to Drive, and shot out of the alleyway. Gunshots rang after the speeding Mercedes.  After the shock and initial anger of being brazenly left in the lurch, Sark stood in the empty alley and smirked.  He thought for a moment, then dialed Allison's number. For whatever reason, feeling the immense, imagined finality of the gesture, he'd erased her from his speed dial.  
  
  "I need to meet with Callaghan," he said succinctly. "Soon."


	7. Coup de Grace

  The woman was insane.

  Sark found her incessantly bleeding heart to be annoying, at best, though he supposed it stemmed from her insurmountable strength. His own heart, impenetrable, served to ward off remorse, attachment, or anything else he might have otherwise felt that would distract him from his job.

  But now his job was the distraction.  For the first time in nearly 20 years, Mr. Sark was without a coherent reason for his current mission.  From the get-go he'd felt animosity toward the Covenant. For one, they'd effectively undermined The Man's operations, reigning in the world of espionage as the sovereign organization. The years in prison had left him out of the loop, and he returned to find the far-reaching crime syndicate he'd worked tireless to build with Irina Derevko had been dismantled,  a band of Trust-Fund has-beens calling the shots in a new foundation based on brainwashing and manipulation. For all his indiscretions, Sark despised the idea of agent programming.  Blackmail, murder and trickery were far less petty than mind games.  So naturally came something Sark was not trained to handle: conflict. An irrational part of him guided Sark to act as a sort of vigilante protector of Sydney Bristow, fighting her enemies while careful remaining one of them.  If you could call cornering her alone in her own house and fucking her senseless merely being her enemy. He scolded himself, insisting that it had merely been an exercise in control.  Demonstrating that Mr. Sark inevitably got what he wanted, one way or another. Proving to her that he would achieve his goal by whatever means necessary.  It was all damn good, to be sure, but the part that confused and infuriated Sark was that, at the time, he hadn't had a motive, a goal to work towards. Touching Sydney Bristow, and later killing her enemy to save her the torture and dismay of guilt, he had done merely for his own pleasure, and out of a sense of protectiveness for her well-being.  And he was on his way to do it all over again.  He thought over his quandary as he waited, alone, in a filthy warehouse on the side streets of Stoke-on-Trent, tapping his fingers patiently on the stiff metal folding chair.  Allison approached, trotting toe-to-heel in the shadows. She'd improved in stealth during his extended sabbatical, but she should have known better when dealing with Sark.  "Stop prancing about and sit down," he ordered lightly, not bothering to lift his glance from the tabletop.

  She came forward and, predictably, kissed him. Rough, sultry and nothing, he thought, like the icy warmth of Sydney Bristow's lips. He welcomed it, of course. Power wasn't only about who held the gun to who's head.

  "I've missed you," she stated, and Sark couldn't resist a laugh.Power. The easiest thing in the world to achieve.-  "What do you want with Callaghan?"  Work before play, Allison. Too late now.  "I need a word with him about the famous Agent Bristow. Alone," he said. He slipped his tie over his head and re-fastened it around his neck.  She sent him a piercing, suspicious glance. She was just beginning to sense something was wrong.  "I'll tell him. Someone will contact you."  He shook his head. "No. Have him call me. No middle-man."  Contempt, skepticism, wariness. "Alright," she said.  "Good-bye, Allison." He walked out, disappeared into the flickering streets of Britain.  She watched him go. Shivered.

-

  Irina Derevko, Joshua Callaghan, Finn Ryden. He would guess Sydney would save her mother for last, twisting the metaphorical knife in the wound for as long as possible before she made the agonizing decision between revenge and forgiveness. Ryden, though, would be the trickiest - she would wait until Callaghan was dead to move onto him.  How, then, would she eliminate Callaghan? Or, rather, when?  Part of him rationalized it as simply reaping his own revenge, stealing the satisfaction of killing their shared enemies for his own.  And of course, he admittedly delighted in pissing off the lovely Miss Bristow.  "What do you want?"  Strange. Daydreaming was certainly not a normal part of his repertoire.  Callaghan, eclipsing the sunlight as he stood impatiently before his employee. Five bullets, all four limbs crippled, then a final shot through the collar bone. Easy.  "There are some matters I wish to discuss about the former Agent Bristow."  Former. Sark sincerely doubted she was still on the CIA payroll after two extended disappearances in as many years.  Callaghan instantly slid into the empty chair across from Sark.  Sark frivolously tapped his fingertips on the tabletop, staring at his hand with preoccupation. Callaghan waited, the innocent noise of the busy café oppressive as he shifted nervously in his seat.  A moment before Callaghan could unleash his impatience, Sark observed, "I tracked Miss Bristow to a nightclub in Italy. I spoke briefly with her before she managed to escape."  Ill-masked astonishment: Callaghan was frightened.  "She murdered Arvin Sloane last night."  Dry lips, color draining from his face, he sensed the muted danger of the calm young man beside him, like a panther behind a veil.  "She murdered my father."  Callaghan couldn't see his eyes from behind the impenetrable black lenses.  A dangerous, deadly game; Sark knew he could win or lose in the space of a second. "I suspect you are next."  "Find her," Callaghan rasped. "Find her and kill her."  Sark nodded in faint agreement. "I am curious as to her pattern, though. I fail to see the connection."  The founders of the Covenant. Sark knew, Callaghan knew, Sydney knew. A connection no one spoke of.  Without hesitation Callaghan reached into his briefcase and withdrew a simple filing folder. He pushed it across the distorted glass tabletop.  Scanning the crowd before flipping it casually open, Sark took one glance then shut it again.  Boyscout. Prince Phillip. Peter Parker and Mary Jane in one. Agent Michael Vaughn. He hid his surprise behind a wall of expressionless boredom.  "A sleeper agent. Bristow and Walker hacked into our mainframe 9 months ago," Callaghan explained. "Lazarey was his handler. Arvin Sloane, I suspect, was just an old adversary of hers she wished to eliminate. Grudges last forever, Mr. Sark."  A feasible lie. Bravo, Josh old boy.  "And you?"  Shrugging. Callaghan pawned his desperation off as nonchalance. "She remembers my face, I suspect. I'm easily enough traced back to the Covenant."  He twisted his mouth, gloating. "I do run things, after all."  Tedium. Mr. Sark didn't care, and he showed it to the world.  "Your tricks don't work on me, Joshua." Personal - the closer the better. The worse. "I'm well aware of the procedure done on me by your beloved pet, Dr. Ockley. I'm willing to overlook the offense."  Twitching. The man was terrified.  "Despite your indiscretions, the Covenant is still the employer best worth my time," Sark explained, slipping the file into his own case without comment. "I will fulfill my task, as asked."  Mercenary. Sark could destroy everything, bring the Covenant to ruins and leave ashes in his wake. Callaghan nodded for him to continue.  "I need all information you have on Bristow, as well as Simon Walker. I need access to the Covenant mainframe to observe her training tapes. There may have been something you missed." Sark paused, deliberated while his dining partner squirmed. "She will die, Mr. Callaghan," he stated.  Callaghan nodded, making a succession of blurred promises as to yielding Sark any and all resources available. Grimly, Sark advised him to grant clearance as soon as possible. Callaghan made the call with him listening from across the table.  10 minutes later, Sark left the buzzing outside cafe, alone. Callaghan remained seated at the table.  Only at closing time later that afternoon did anyone notice the cold body, an arsenic tablet still dissolving in his bloodstream.-  She was waiting when he got there, sitting indian-style on the hood of his beloved Mercedes, wearing a cat suit and a scowl. A pack full of weaponry and repelling equipment lay in the passenger seat.  "I've just come from an estate not far outside Stoke-on-Trent," she explained, watching him with blackened eyes. "There wasn't much problem with security, actually. The family was attending a funeral."  "I'd really like my car back," Sark observed.  "I'd really like my life back."  Sighing, he leaned against the bumper beside her. "Callaghan robbed me, Sydney. I don't take that kindly."  He waited for her to snap, to launch to her feet and give him a rousing ass-kicking. He expected it of her by now, but she seemed hell-bent on disappointing him lately.  "You can get your damn money back, Sark. Callaghan took something irreplaceable from me."  "What, an over-priced apartment and a government salary? Good Lord, Sydney, you came out on top."  He wanted her to hit him, hurt him, badly. She was fading back to Julia Thorne as they spoke.  "He took Vaughn." She didn't seem overly upset, really, but she'd learned a thing or two during her stint as a hired assassin.  Oh, hell.  "Sydney -"

  "When he was missing, after I destroyed the Mueller device. It wasn't Khasinau. It was the Covenant."

  "And your supposed to be a bloody _spy_..."  "They turned him over to The Man after they were through with him. They knew I'd rescue him. Callaghan _knew_ it!"  "Perhaps, but _you_, apparently, don't know a _thing_ -"  "Vaughn betrayed me, just like all the others. God, I'm like a plague, aren't I?" She was ranting now.  The old, fragile Sydney Bristow rearing up finally and bursting forth. "I just destroy the lives of everyone I love, you know that, Sark? Which, come to think of it, is probably why you're still alive. Damnit, everything I touch - Will, Francie, Vaughn, Simon, Eric. I screwed my dad up pretty good, too. I mean, he's still trying to save me, for God's sake."  Exhaling through his teeth, Sark reached out a placed a hand on her arm. As amusing as it was, she was beginning to hyperventilate in a hotel parking lot.  She stiffened immediately, and threw his hand off with a jerk.  "I'm not your therapist, Sydney," he said quietly. "Hell, I'm not even your friend. We're on opposing sides and we always will be. That night in Etrelles changed nothing, as I'm sure you will agree."  Her face contorted with the rage of ever agreeing with him, but she bit back an insult. It was far better than the alternative.  He was leaning forward, now, whispering darkly into her ear, her glossy dark hair fluttering on his breath.  "I expect nothing less from you but complete opposition, Miss Bristow. So I will say this only once."  Her pulse has stilled.  She was completely immobile, though he doubted it was with fear.  "I always..."  His lips nearly touched her skin, perilous for both of them.  "Get..."  Her hand moved, involuntarily formed a fist.  "...What I want."  As slowly as melting ice, she turned to face him. He narrowly leaned away in time.

  She smiled.

  "Wanna bet?"


	8. Ante Up

-  
**Part 8 : Ante Up  
**-

1 a.m. in a college library as he typed quickly, ignoring the alternate curious and appraising looks from students pulling all-nighters in their study groups. Sark, suffice to say, found his current mission draining.

He sat at a quiet, black-screened computer in the far corner. He punched in a quick 19-digit code, memorized from Callaghan's mouth moments before he...

Well, you know.

The code supplied entrance the Covenant mainframe; level 5 clearance. From there, a series of well-placed taps of the keyboard, and he gained full access.

Sark wasted no time on their functional information, the locations and contents of their vaults, or the status reports on their grand schemes. He bypassed all the information the CIA would give its proverbial front teeth to have, and went straight for their operative files. Conspicuous and marked with a Classified tag, he found the hasty report on Michael Vaughn.

It began vaguely, with ill-informed accounts he'd supposedly fed the Covenant while working for the CIA. There were holes in his reports to Ockley, trifling, cynical and obvious to anyone but Sydney Bristow. It was a sloppy job, set up with minutes to spare before Simon Walker accessed the mainframe and discovered the information to be false. Michael Vaughn was no traitor. He was still the same shoe-shined pansy he ever was.

A Covenant sleeper agent. Right.

Sark glanced absently through the incomplete report, skimming through the personal evaluation for his own amusement. Idealistic, compassionate, levelheaded. Ha. The man had the spine of a premature crustacean. A spotty account of his dormant relationship with Sydney, noticeably absent of details since her infamous return to the CIA.

There was absolutely no mention of her second disappearance.

A deficient reference to his lovely wife and a throw away sentence dedicated to his sidekick, Agent Weiss were also found. On impulse Sark logged out of Vaughn's fictitious file, and searched through the surveillance records for a run-down on Eric Weiss. The Covenant kept close tabs on ranking American field agents. It was easily found, clustered amid information on all the other L.A. branch operatives Sark knew and loved.

Well, knew.

In his entire two-year confinement, Agent Weiss had only come to speak with Sark once. He remembered it clearly, 3 days after Sydney's apparent death. Weiss had interrogated Sark before anyone else had thought to even consult the imprisoned right-hand man of Irina Derevko. It had been short and to the point, brutal, and Weiss had left without another word when Sark admitted to ignorance.

Weiss had a sporadic attendance record, as well as concerns from Dr. Barnett, and strange gaps in his financial situation. Odd disappearances, returning days later with obscure trips to the government infirmary sporting unexplained wounds. Eric Weiss had come dangerously close to losing his job, all because he was out searching for Sydney Bristow.

His erratic behavior started a few months after Sydney vanished, after Jack Bristow had retreated into his impenetrable shell, Vaughn had given up in favor of grief and cheap alcohol, and life had seemingly continued on without her. Eric Weiss had continued searching for Sydney when the otherwise-unanimous fad sweeping through the CIA had been to release hope and move on.

After she turned up in Hong Kong, Weiss's behavior had shifted dramatically. He became dependable, moving like clockwork through his assignments, never missing a beat. When she left again, he picked up his old habits and returned to the search.

It seemed to Sark to be of vital importance, somehow. It reminded him of something foreign, a forgotten feeling he'd pushed away without remorse. Love? No. Love was the wallowing sack of confusion called Michael Vaughn. Friendship. Untainted, unapologetic friendship. Eric Weiss loved Sydney with nothing expected in return. He'd given her friendship, and it had been constant.

Shaking his head at the stupidity of the man, Sark deleted the cache and walked into the early morning. Callaghan's murder would be easily enough tracked back to him. There was work to be done first.

-

How… clichéd.

He stalked through the doors of the Swiss bank without hesitation; No one would be looking for him there. By report, Sark was in Fiji, tracking the movements of the rogue Agent Bristow.

Though, for all he knew, Sydney could very well actually be in Fiji. She'd disappeared without a trace after their little conversation in Britain. He'd returned to her house in Etrelles to find it ransacked.

"Mag ich Ihnen, Sir helfen?" inquired the desk clerk politely.

Idly removing his sunglasses, Sark opened his mouth to reply before remembering Callaghan, typically, hadn't spoken German.

"I'm sorry," he said haltingly. "Do you speak English?"

The clerk forced a smile, and nodded. Sark briskly requested access to Joshua Callaghan's vault, spitting out the stolen security codes before the clerk could say another word.

After all, Callaghan had been a rude little bastard.

As the precisely uniformed young woman stiffly turned away to her computer, Sark slipped a hand into his breast pocket and pressed the end of a silver engraved pen, once.

By the shining glass double doors, the monitors lining the security desk flickered and went black. Hastily the guard posted at the desk snatched up his walkie-talkie, barking through the snapping buzz.

"It's down again! All security teams stand by."

Being led through the winding metal hallways of Credit Suisse, Sark counted the impenetrable vaults as they passed. 9th floor, 3, 4, 5... 6. He absently snatched hold of the clerk's distastefully stiff collar and delivered a brutal karate-chop to the back of her neck.

He picked the ID card off her jacket as she slid to the floor. After a 12-digit entry code and a swipe of the keycard, he entered the anonymously owned vault, covered from thieves by a decoy account of Joshua Callaghan's. Inside was metal, smooth, seamless plating along the walls and floor. Newly malfunctioning security cameras were mounted in all four corners. In the center of the room was a table, much like the one housed in Sark's vault in Grand Cayman. Stilettos, a coy little black dress, a pistol, and a smirk; Sydney sat on the table, and nothing else.

"What can I say," she remarked. "Girls love diamonds."

His first instinct was to shoot her. Lift his hand, pull in his index finger, and blast away that little fucking smile. Seeing her there, legs crossed and seated languidly, unquestionably the victor, left Sark dangerously close to losing control of his faultless, uncaring cruelty and descend into barbarism.

"Don't do that," Sydney corrected suddenly. "Your scary eye-twitch thing. Don't do that."

He stood in the doorway, barely noticing that the bank clerk outside began to awaken, or that the security system would reboot any second, or that he held his gun aimed viciously at Sydney's throat. Unfazed, she stood and swept past him into the hallway. She was nearly to the emergency stairwell when she turned and shot him an amused frown.

"Coming, Sark?"

His jaw clenched, his knuckles white with rage as he gripped the Glock, Sarl followed her out. A scattered team of guards met them at the back door. Sark shot them, a bullet in each thigh, before Sydney could even react.

She led him to the Mercedes parked 3 blocks away.

-

"I'm assuming you have a vendetta against Ryden, too, right?" she commented, stopping at a yellow light. Sark resisted the temptation to snipe at her for her driving. Hitchhiking was not something he looked forward to.

"But of course."

"Why?"

"Don't worry. I'm sure I'll find a reason."

She gripped the tough leather binding on the steering wheel with unnecessary violence, keeping her face impassive. "We'll do it Friday, then." "

I apologize, Sydney, but I'm afraid I'm seeing someone else right n-"

"I mean kill him together. He'll be in San Angelo this week to meet with some arms dealers. Dumbass," she snapped.

"Where is it? The money?"

"Focus, Sark."

"Damnit, woman, where is my money?" he hissed, glaring at her from across the armrest.

"It's in good hands. Good, filthy rich hands." She was enjoying this far too much, he noted. "I want to be the one who kills him."

"Priceless."

He rolled down the window then, wind instantly whipping through his slowly growing hair and drowning out the line of profanities he began reciting under his breath.

-

He was waiting for her. He knew from the reports that he was next. Sydney Bristow had eliminated all her enemies but two; Derevko would be the last. Finn was prepared.

-

Sark was in the Falklands. Tomorrow he would be in Chile, following word of Sydney's travel. The next day, Ecuador. From there, to Never-Never Land and back, with more cryptic sightings of the errant operative.

Allison had no choice but to accept his word.

Sark put away his phone, standing unnoticed outside the blaring nightclub in the core of Texas. Leaning against a lamppost, dressed in skin-tight black leather and a wholly unflattering turquoise wig, Sydney grinned mockingly at him.

"How's Allison? Does she miss her Sweet Babboo?"

"Says the woman dressed like a hooker."

Continuously grinning, Sydney straightened, and led him by the hand into the nightclub.

She was irresistibly reminded of the disastrous night in Taipei, only her hair had been a different shade of blue and it had been Vaughn instead of Sark shoving away the half-drunken men who stepped closer to leer at her. Sark, though, seemed to be taking an unrivaled pleasure in throwing off unwanted attention centered on his companion.

"Couldn't you have worn, say, a burlap sack, instead?" he muttered, slipping an arm around her waist as she scanned the crowd.

"I hear unkempt is in," she replied absently. "Up there. On the loft."

He unconsciously tightened his grip on her, and swayed compliantly to the droning music. There was no real need to dance. The dance floor was a mating ground, an unpolished stage where ill-dressed partygoers took the opportunity to grind their bodies against each other.

Sark had learned to waltz when he was seven. Such waste.

"Three guards. He's still waiting for his appointments to show up," she murmured in his ear.

"Turn."

Sydney complied, circling around him like a caged cat. He smirked at the effort. Attention to details could keep you alive in this business.

At a cramped table near the wire-metal staircase, Ryden glared into the crowd as he clutched a half-empty glass of Coke and a withering cigarette. He was different than the photograph Sark had studied - his hair, not dark and curling, but short and rough, black at the roots, crayola red at the tips. He had several new holes in his ears, one in his eyebrow, fierce eyes hidden behind black-framed glasses. Ryden was dressed as his custom: a tarnished windbreaker over a brand-less T-shirt, a silk tie around his neck and a Glock hidden in the pockets of his khakis. He sat with his right leg tucked beneath the chair, carefully guarded from the jostling patrons passing by.

"Loathsome little nerd, isn't he?" Sark whispered in her ear, and she gave a low, smoky laugh.

A quiet group of jagged men approached Ryden. They spoke in whispers, sat beside him and placed an array of papers and a metal attaché case before him. Sydney reached around Sark and withdrew the Ruger tucked in his belt.

"Just tell me when," she said in his ear.

They began arguing. Quiet hissing across the table, the spokesman for the arm dealers leaning in to bark at Ryden, who didn't glare, or smile, or show any emotion besides vague interest. He sipped his Coke, drew on his cigarette, and listened without comment.

"About your beloved Agent Vaughn," Sark began, tugging her closer when she moved to release him. "Have you verified the information on his treachery?"

"Yes," answered Sydney. One hand was half-beneath his shirt, the cool metal of the pistol hidden against his skin, and the other was digging blunt, black-painted nails into Sark's shoulder blade.

"Simon did it for me. And I trust his word, Sark."

"'Trusted'," he corrected. "Past-tense, Sydney." He instantly found is necessary to tighten his grip once more, refusing to let her slide away. "Just listen to me for a moment."

The dealers were nodding, Ryden leaning back after stating a short sentence and crushing his cheap cigarette on the blistered tabletop. "Callaghan gave me the report on Mr. Vaughn when I confronted him about your little murder spree. He produced the file as a cover, Sydney. He insisted Ockley was his handler."

She flinched, gave a final try at struggling out of his grasp. "Where did you get the information incriminating Agent Vaughn?"

"Ockley told me," she snapped. "During the first few months, after I kept resisting the physical torture. I found proof when Simon and I hacked into their mainframe."

"After you escaped?" He was smiling now, condescendingly, down upon her like she was an amusing child.

"What's your point, Sark?" The dealers slid a case to Ryden, shook hands. Rose to leave. "

Where do you think I was all that time your dear Agent Vaughn was missing? Twiddling my thumbs in a nunnery?" He spoke harshly, hurriedly. "I was in charge of his handling after he was found in Taipei. Khasinau took charge of him when your mother requested I beginning planning her extraction. Didn't you ever wonder where those scars on his arms and legs came from?"

"You -"

"Yes." Her fingers squeezed viciously into his shoulder. He chanced a glance away from Ryden to look her in the face. Tears. Hurt and rage.

"What are you telling me, Sark?" Her voice was cotton, torn to shreds and rasping.

"Michael Vaughn is as patriotic and naively loyal as ever he was," he stated, almost bitterly. "Though I do admit, marrying the first available NSC agent he laid eyes on does leave one wondering, doesn't it?"

"So Vaughn -"

"No." Her breathing came in sporadic gasps, her face cracking as she fought for control of her movements. She was unable to feign enjoyment, unable to dance seductively, to play her part. Sydney was on a mission, but she froze.

"He's not - he never... how could I ever believe such a thing? I thought he - God, I thought he betrayed me!"

Sark gripped her shaking body, and berated himself for being unable to tear his eyes away from her distress. Ryden was on the move - damnit, he'd lost sight of him.

"Sydney!" Sark warned, and swung her around. A punch, a perfect right-hook, slammed into his back and he crumpled to the floor.

He rolled, counted their attackers - five, circling through the dance floor, two moving in on Sydney and another looming above Sark with a handgun leveled at his head. Ryden stood at the foot of the staircase by the exit, smirking and lighting a gasper.

Sydney didn't fail him. She took one glance, gave herself a mental slap, and dropped Sark's executioner with a savage roundhouse kick. To the sound of safety catches being release, she turned, lifted the Glock, and opened fire on the two arms dealers Ryden had hired for their assassination.

All around them, patrons were skittering away, shrieking and stumbling. Chaos. Ryden grinned happily, and blended into the crowd surging out of the nightclub.

"We do this a lot, don't we?" Sydney mused, casting away the empty Glock and accepting Sark's offered hands. He swung her at arms-length like a ballerina, her feet shooting out and catching the outstretched hand of an attacker, striking the loaded pistol from his hands.

Sydney rolled to her feet as Sark caught the gun. "Find us a car, won't you?" he told her politely, calmly engaging in a fierce shoot-out with the three remaining arms dealers.

It didn't last long: three bullets, a vicious precision shot in each lung, and he followed her out. No one dared stop him. In the distance, sirens blared.

At the curb, Sydney waited behind the wheel of a hot-wired silver GT Mustang. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't see any Mercedes'."

"Where's Ryden?" he barked, sliding into the passenger's seat. She slammed on the gas, swerving to avoid a multitude of panicking onlookers. Ahead of them, tearing through a red light, was a powder blue Aston Martin.

Sark smiled grimly. "I should've guessed."


	9. Jekyll

**Part 9 : Jekyll  
**-

"Nice, Sydney, nice. If you turn left, I bet you could side-swipe that Mazda, too."

"Hey, here's a novel idea: shut your pie hole!"

"These life-or-death situations are almost worth it merely for you scintillating conversational skills."

"I wish I could say the same for yours."

A red light, bah. Sydney jacked the wheel, tires shrieking against the pavement as they fishtailed between oncoming cars. Three blocks ahead was Ryden's ridiculously expensive sports car; the distance between them closed rapidly due to Sydney's gleefully erratic driving.

And this, coming from the woman who stopped at yellow lights.

A police cruiser was giving lackluster chase, falling behind in the wake of a 4-car pileup caused by Sydney cutting off a big-rig at the intersection. Ryden cut down an alleyway.

"He went -" Sark began.

"I know."

Down a blackened, narrow street. Sydney switched off the headlights, switching gears to blast after the bleary red glow of the Aston Martin.

"He turned -"

"I know."

Cutting through, back onto the main road. Switching lanes like a madman, Ryden shot down the street.

"He's going -"

"I_ know_."

Motorists honked, screeching to a halt to avoid the frenzied swerving. Sydney had no choice but to cut an abrupt left, scraping the passenger side door against a careening Mitsubishi.

"He's still going -"

"Damn it, Sark, I _know_!"

Pulling a 180, Sydney righted the Mustang, gunning down the wrong lane after the disappearing Aston Martin.

"He turned -"

Sydney shot him a withering glance.

Down another alley, this one lit in cream-colored light from a shattered streetlamp. Further down, it split into two ways.

"You pick," they said in unison.

Straight or left: they sat in silent indecision.

Hissing through her teeth, Sydney spun the wheel and turned left.

No streetlamps down here, it was pitch black and layered with grime. The road was a narrow strip of pavement boxed in by endless walls of gray cement, creaking warehouses and abandoned apartments where the rats and lice lived rent-free. Lastly, a dead end.

"He's gone," Sark told her.

She rapped her knuckles against the dashboard.

"Without putting my sexuality into question, he's rather eye-catching, Sydney," Sark said in a flat monotone. "He can't stay hidden long even if he wanted to. We'll find him."

No movement. Nothing. She stared at the flawed concrete wall ahead.

"I swear to you we will find him."

"'_We_'?"

She turned to stare him in the face, her eyes savagely dark. He didn't answer.

"What '_we_'?" she barked. "Why are you _here_?"

"I'm here," he answered indifferently, "because you kidnapped me after stealing my 800 million inheritance."

"I didn't kidnap you," she yelled. "I offered you a ride!"

"Have it your way," he said, and he was smiling, and the silence crept back into their ears.

Idly Sydney switched back on the headlights, and turned off the engine. Blinding, out of place, white light caught all the cracks and crags running along the impenetrable grey wall. It was like a cage.

"I've noticed," Sydney observed, "you never answer direct questions."

"Was that a question?"

"Nope."

A pause.

"You're right, I suppose. I'm here because you're not the type of person that should be alone."

"And you are?"

"You tell me."

She winced. Sydney Bristow would have cried. Julia Thorne would have laughed. She was caught somewhere in between.

"It's not pleasant, is it?" he observed.

"Not especially."

"We'll kill him, Sydney." He sounded certain.

Nothing is certain but death.

"He was Simon's best friend." It mattered to her, somehow.

No reply. After a moment, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Rough and cruel and hiding any trace of tenderness. When she pulled away he tightened his grip on the back of her neck and dragged her close, merciless. Sark craved control of the one thing he could never conquer.

He heard the noise first and acted without thought or hesitation. Sark heard the safety catch released, the delicate air moving silently as Ryden fitted the rifle to his eye and opened fire.

Sark pulled her down atop him a breath of a second before a 30-bullet spray danced along the stolen Mustang, puncturing metal and shattering glass. Fleetingly, Sark stared at Sydney's shocking, temporary turquoise hair. It was sticky now, plastered with a sickening copper-red liquid - his blood, running freely from the arm held fiercely around her neck. A gaping scar was torn through his leather sleeve and into his flesh by a passing 10mm. bullet.

There was an abrupt, snapping noise as Ryden released the empty magazine and loaded in a new one.

Sydney struggled against him, fighting to rise, but Sark pulled her desperately back down against him. They were lying flat across the console, guarded by the riddled driver's door. His wounded forearm had gone numb. With his one good hand Sark grabbed the door handle and pulled, tumbling onto the muddy pavement with Sydney jarring atop him.

"Nice little trick I learned," Ryden announced, vaulting onto the crippled hood and casually leveling the MP5 at the dormant duo. "Y'see, first you escape." His voice a higher pitch, his accent a mirror of Simon's. "Then y' come back, see? Catch 'em by surprise." He grinned down at Sydney, leered and examined her with exaggeration. "I can see why my boy Simon turned lapdog, mate," he said to Sark. "Though I can't figure you out. I mean, you got Allison Doren an' you _still_ want more? Bloody hell, mate, fuckin' her is fine, but you just don't go an' fall in love with the bitch. God, haven't you heard? She's a damn plague."

Sydney was staring up at Ryden with an unreadable expression. Hatred, maybe. Sorrow. Sark half-sat up, gritting his teeth while holding his bleeding arm to his chest. "I can assure you, Finn, _in love_ is one of the few things I am _not_. I am, after all, currently working as an errand boy for your beloved Covenant."

"Oh, of course," he smiled wolfishly. Sydney slowly climbed to a crouch. "I never doubted your loyalty, Mr. Sark. Why, just a second ago you were trying to choke her to death with your tongue. Good show, mate. Take one for the team."

Sark opened his mouth to reply, to lie his way through this predicament, but he saw clearly that there was nothing doing. He was out of a job, and quite possibly out of a life, all because of the damned, infuriating woman crouching beside him.

No, not crouching, standing. No, not standing - flying through the air with bullets sizzling in her wake, diving beneath the car. Sark narrowly rolled away before Ryden's submachine gun could amputate his legs.

How humiliating. Mr. Sark, the legendary badass of the espionage community, was crawling on his back away from a jerk-off wearing a necktie over a T-shirt, whilst Sydney Bristow, daughter of The Man and general all-'round prodigal babe, hid under a stolen car.

He'd always known the black market was gone to seed.

Grunting in frustration, Ryden dropped down the ground, kicking Sark away without notice. He leaned down to look under the car.

"C'mon, now, Julia. You're too pretty a lass to be-"

A 4-inch heel smashed into the bridge of his nose. His glasses shattered, bone crunching. He let out a roar, drawing up the MP5 and shooting blindly.

A hail of bullets pelted into the pavement, into a tire, up along the hood, down along the door, nearing Sydney - Sark took his opportunity and swung his foot viciously into the back of Ryden's knee. The man went down heavily onto Sark, knuckles scraping against concrete as he fought to keep hold of the submachine gun.

"Too bad, I really wanted to hear the end of that sentence," Sydney mused, rolling to her feet and slamming her toe ruthlessly into Ryden's exposed ribcage.

He was down, but not out. Howling for breath, he rent his elbow into Sark's face and lashed out with both legs, catching Sydney in the stomach and throwing her ferally into the alley wall. Her head cracked against the concrete. She slid down hard and went still.

Laughing with menace, Ryden climbed to his feet, seized Sark by the collar and rammed the famed assassin headfirst into the hammered car door. Sark's already bleeding face gained a split lip and a marvelous bruise.

"Come on, pretty boy," Ryden hissed in his ear. "Where are the banter, the smirk and your precious little plans?" He dragged Sark to his feet and began hitting him, barbaric slaps and punches marring his paleskin. "Where's your precious Sydney Bristow, well? What's it about this girl, eh? Turns everyone into a sniveling little wretch. First Simon, now you: the Man's legendary wolfhound. She broke you nice an' quick, might I say."

Trash talk. Sark had always felt distaste for macho banter during a fight.

Nevertheless, he looked across into Ryden's glaring eyes, and he smirked even as a fist beat against his mouth.

"Oh, yes. Very quickly," Sark agreed. "But then again, we are talking about the woman who systematically murdered 4 other founders of the Covenant." His injured arm, previously held useless to his chest, snaked up and grabbed hold of Ryden's oncoming fist. "Pity, really, that I have to break her ongoing streak."

Pitiful. He was merely out of practice, he told himself - he was used to dealing with the elite. He hadn't found trash talk necessary in years.

Energy draining in waves, Sark went on the desperate offense, scoring a double blow with a right hook and a well-aimed side kick. Ryden fell back to the ground. Sark was crouching for the kill when Ryden grabbed him by the shoulders and rolled, dragging him down and beneath him.

Pinned, Sark thrashed, landing a glancing punch. A switchblade appeared in Ryden's hand and he pressed it against Sark's pulsing throat.

Game over.

Ryden grinned. Not the enigmatic smirk so preferred by Sark, not even the callous smile adopted by Simon Walker. His was a pure, pleased grin.

"30-round magazine, right? Man, that's gotta suck for you." The clear, easy voice was feminine and unabashedly American. Sydney stood three feet away holding the MP5 aimed directly at Ryden's unmistakable face.

Superfluous at such a time, Sark repressed the urge to scoff. What was the problem between Americans and suitable zingers?

The blade sunk unintentionally deeper. It slid through skin and was rewarded with a damp trickle of blood running down Sark's ear.

"Anytime soon, Sydney?" Sark berated.

Ryden stared at her through near-sighted eyes. He was Simon's best friend.

"Sydney," Sark urged her into action with quiet, insignificant tones. "Sydney, pull the trigger."

She was frozen. She'd become Sydney Bristow again, and at the worst time possible.

"Remember what he did to you." Louder now, trying desperately to reach her. Ryden's grip tightened in Sark's salient hair, tugging his head back, the switchblade pressing deeper.

"Shoot him, Sydney. _Shoot him_," he shouted hoarsely.

She prepared to fire, still hesitating. Ryden sprang.

He leapt up and to the right, Sydney's surprised shots ringing against empty air, and he threw the switchblade with a practiced jerk of his hand. Sydney's hand went up instantly, knocking the blade away and scoring a shallow, insignificant cut along her palm. Ryden charged her, struck her twice across the face and received a bruising jackknife-kick to the sternum in return. Sark, helpless and hating every minute of it, ineffectually attempted to stand and retrieve the fallen MP5 submachine gun laying on the ground between the two fighters.

Ryden hit her again, and she lost her balance, spinning sideways until he slammed her violently against the wall. He whispered a short sentence in her ear, continually grinning, and kissed her jaw, his teeth scraping bone. She fought, of course, but he absently shoved her into the concrete once more and watched in amusement as her vision blurred.

"Later, then," he told Sark, tipping a wink before jogging down the shadowed alley. A screech of tires could be heard, an unknown voice shouting for Ryden to hurry. Sydney attempted to follow, but her legs gave out and she stumbled in exhaustion.

Blackness crept around the edges of Sark's consciousness. His eyes flickered shut, and he forced his breathing even, his blood slowing in his veins and the pain in his wounded arm returning with vengeance. Gathering his strength, he stood, and went shakily to Sydney's side.

She sat against the rough, bloodstained wall. She held her face in her arms, around her knees, and her breath came in short, erratic gasps.

"Sydney?" He knelt beside her, confused and unsure of himself. He tugged away unwilling hands, taking in her tired face, a jagged stream of mascara running down her battered cheeks. "Sydney."

"You should have left me dead." No further explanation was forthcoming. Her voice was low, creaking. She looked away.

"Sydney."

His grip tightened around her wrists.

She licked her lips, refusing to meet his eyes. She was frightened of her own skin.

"You should have let me stay Julia," she clarified, watching, unblinking, the immobile damaged Mustang.

"Sydney."

"Julia wouldn't - Julia could have killed him. He would have been dead weeks ago." She couldn't breathe, her throat blocked with hate, but she didn't notice.

"Sydney."

"_What?_" Finally she met his gaze, daring him to hurt her, to take out his anger on the one person who had caused so much of it.

He smirked. "Julia Thorne and Sydney Bristow are the same person, darling."

Her strength returned. She shoved him away, rearing to her feet and bearing down upon him. "You don't get it, Sark, so save your little pep talk. I was fine before you came. I was fine before I had to go save your ass from the Covenant."

"And why do you think that is?" He stood angrily, a hand to the wall for stability. "It's so easy to hate me, Sydney, because I'm everything you despise about yourself. You hate me because I remind you that no matter how hard you try, you're never simply Jack Bristow's daughter _or_ Julia Thorne. You can wear a disguise and pretend to be whoever the hell you want, but you're still just Sydney."

She hit him, with both fists, in the chest and shoulders.

"Sydney Bristow was never dead, you just made yourself forget her! You were never Julia Thorne; Julia Thorne doesn't even exist. She's an alias, Sydney. It's just another lie we tell to the world."

"I don't want to be Sydney Bristow!" She aimed for his face then, her knuckles tearing against his teeth, smearing them with his blood and her own.

"_Do you think I want to be Julian Lazarey?_" Unexpected and unintentional, He screamed it at her, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her cruelly. No, he told himself. Speak it aloud and everything will break, come tumbling down and leave you with nothing. It tore from his throat without his consent. "Don't you think I'd rather be nothing more than Mr. Sark, the cold, heartless bastard you see me as? Don't you think I wish I could look at you without thinking you're the woman who slit my father's throat and left him to bleed?"

She gave one last futile thrash, jostling painfully against him, trying to tear away from his grasp.

"Mr. Sark wouldn't care, Sydney. Mr. Sark would be so remarkably pleased with his 800 million dollar inheritance that it'd be no consequence that his father's death was what granted it. Mr. Sark," his voice was like gravel, "is merely a facade."

Shock - broad, unguarded disbelief sketched across her weary features.

He let her go, and turned away, ignored her when she called to him. "There's a safe house not far from here," he announced. "Just outside the city. We'd best start walking."

With one last attempt to draw himself out of the rising ice, he pulled Sydney to her feet. "I hid the Mercedes a couple blocks away. C'mon," she said quietly, leading him through the winding alleyway. They kept to the shadows, away from inquiry. They were creatures of darkness, and tonight, beaten and bloody, they looked it.

-

They arrived at the small apartment in the backlash of the city, dusty and untouched for months. Her body was riddled with dull aches and razor stings; Sydney found the medicine cabinet fully stocked with disinfectant, gauze, and morphine. She took the supplies into the bedroom, and silently attended to Sark.

He watched her as she worked, never once blinking, or wavering his gaze from the clouded lines of her face. His breath hissed through his teeth when she cleaned the jagged bullet tear across his arm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

After a moment, he nodded.

A liquid icepack held softly against his tortured purple cheekbone, a damp cloth washing his split lip. Her hair, finally free of the tasteless green wig, was glossy and dark, shifting like sand between his fingers. Without a word she efficiently packed away the medical kit, and when he took her hand and dragged her down beside him she didn't bother to resist.

Hazy and half-awake they moved, oblivious to the chill December air as it snaked through the cracks in the walls. A cheated warmth, meaningless skin against skin, effortlessly lost in the confusion of who they were and who they were meant to be. Enemies with their masks on, weak and terrified without them. It was nothing like the night in Etrelles. Now, in the blackest hours of the morning, they were painful, quiet solace to each other.

There, Mr. Sark and Julia Thorne faded to shadows.

-

With the gray sun came rain. It splashed against the unwashed window, drawing him gradually from his dreams.

Whenever he awoke, he could never remember them.

He trailed his fingers along Sydney's stomach as she climbed up, spiritlessly attempted to pull her back against him. She mechanically shook him away, gathering up her clothes and dressing with her eyes staring out the obscured window.

Sydney had carried in a black metal case from the trunk of the Mercedes the night before; He hadn't cared then. Now she was unlocking it, and a wave of curiosity and uneasy prompted him to sit up straight and pierce her with an irritated glare.

She unloaded an assortment of throwing knives, twin pistols and a handheld computer, strapping and stowing and secreting them away in various places along her clothing. She carefully kept her head turned away from Sark.

"I know we're not exactly suburban soccer parents," he observed, "but the morning after doesn't usually include a thousand-plus dollar arsenal."

"Ryden's coming."

_What, now?_ Luckily, he caught himself before uttering that imbecilic question. Not now, this minute. But soon. He would be searching for them as they spoke.

She closed the case, locked it, hefted it casually over her shoulder and moved to the door. "See ya around, Sark."

After a millisecond of staring at her in incredulity, Sark launched to his feet and grabbed hold of her wrist, slamming the bedroom door shut beside her. "Where are you going?" he rasped.

First, confusion. Her adorable, petulant frown. Liquid brown eyes involuntarily sweeping over his rough, unclothed body, and then forcefully brought back to his bruised face. Lastly, a snarl.

Angelic.

"I'm saving my ass, Sark." Harsh, ruthless. "I'm going far, far away." She tried so hard to be Julia Thorne.

"And when he finds you?" He was stuck somewhere in between - Sark's own instinctual self-preservation weighing against the unexplainable impulse to hide her away where no one could find her but him. He'd never once claimed he was not a selfish man.

"When he finds me? Pray to God I'm holding a Howitzer." He had her in a corner, and she didn't like it.

"You can't live like that, Sydney." It was a mistake, trying to drawing on her humanity. He lost. She broke free of the cage he'd been building around her.

"I can't live like this, either." She pushed him out of the way and headed into the living room. With irritation, he dressed to the waist and followed her just as the deadbolt came loose and she opened the front door.

He snaked one arm around her waist and tugged her back, pushing it shut. Pinned her when she jerked to punch him.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I've enjoyed a long and successful career as a hired assassin?" he gritted.

"All more incentive for me to get moving." She bucked furiously, breaking free.

Bloody woman.

"Would you sit down for a moment?" he snapped, re-locking the door.

Snorting in disgust, she straightened and stood impatiently, staring blankly at his disheveled, half-dressed state.

Not for the first time, Sark noted Sydney Bristow's knack for catching him during his worst moments. Actually, she was the cause of most of them.

"Quit smirking at me and get to the point," she ordered.

Bloody woman.

"If Finn Ryden wants you dead, and believe me, Sydney, he _does_, then you stand little to no chance of evading him on your own." He held his stance calmly, unaffected by the mad kabuki dance his mind was currently occupying itself with. He simply blamed the morphine and remained his usual assured self. "I have a wide variety of contacts, and I have no qualms with murder. You, on the other hand, are extensively defenseless in your current state of affairs."

She shot him an eerie, uniquely personalized version of Sark's trademark smirk. "_Really_,"she drawled. "And your supposed to be the CIA's top threat. No, of course I wasn't out making a name for myself while you were rotting in prison. You're right, Sark, I'm_ completely_ defenseless and without contacts."

"You can't run forever."

Her eyes blackened. She laughed. "Who would want to live forever?"

"Stay," he said. What the hell, he thought, and added, "With me."

She shook her head, still smiling.

"Just listen a moment," He'd try anything to draw her in. "Together, maybe. Control the world and all that."

He saw a flicker of red through the crack in her armor. Ah. She'd been bluffing all along. "You're too much like Simon, Sark."

It was no use. He couldn't reach her by tapping into her inner goodness or any of that useless shit. She already felt it, the shattering heartache. She was broken inside and nothing Sark could say would injured her now.

"He thought he could take anything." She continued wistfully, full of regret, dismissive of the man watching her. "He thought he could take on the world and win."

She began pacing, unseeing, fighting an epic battle against the tears clouding her eyes. "He loved watching the sun rise. Go ahead, I laughed too, at first. He used to tell me that with his guts and my brains, we could do anything. We'd blow the Covenant to hell and then move onto Derevko, the CIA, anybody who'd ever burned me." A wry smile. "He had some pretty interesting ideas for you, by the way."

She met Sark's gaze - both were ridden with questions, confusion, both held their game faces immovably in place, smooth expressions of careless disdain.

"He had so much to give, Sark, yet such a capacity for hate. He wanted the world to know how pain he had felt, and how much he could cause."

He understood perfectly.

She could have been describing Sark.

"He kept me alive."

So had Sark.

"And now he's dead."

It was something between a statement and a question. He nodded, once, and stepped to the side. She walked out of the safe house without looking back.


	10. The Cardcastle

-  
**Part 10 : The Cardcastle**  
-  
  
From a 30-by-50 foot cell, to a series of warehouses and street side-  
apartments, to sleepless nights spent pounding through dazzling,  
cement cities, the affluence of the California beachside townhouse  
returned him to his tarnished glory. Appearance could make or break a  
man.  
  
It'd been nearly two years and three months since Sark had felt so  
completely in control - this was his turf, his specialty. He'd been in  
this all of twice, and still servants went skittering under his  
glance.  
  
He walked up the red-carpeted staircase, through gilded hallways, into  
the master study. Plush rugs, mahogany desk, paintings and drawings  
and photographs lining the walls in bronze and platinum frames. Yes,  
very nice, bling-bling, but Sark had business to attend to.  
  
"How's the Mercedes? I had it kept up to date. It arrived safely, I  
presume?" Swiveling distractedly, staring at the scarred young protég  
she'd left behind.  
  
Two years and she'd shipped him his bloody car.  
  
"Yes. Thank you." Nodding perfunctorily, he frowned slighty.  
"Doubtless you've been keeping tabs on my recent," Sydney's words,  
"escapades."  
  
She smiled, like a rose under glass. "Oh yes. You've been making some  
new friends, I hear."  
  
"You have no objections, then?"  
  
"To your latest employers, or my daughter? Even if I did, Julian,  
would you take heed?"  
  
Finally he shifted, released his stiff stance and sank into the  
offered leather-bound armchair, facing Irina with delicacy. "Sydney  
and I have reached a temporary truce, of sorts. We're working together  
to reach a common goal, then we will go our separate ways."  
  
"Except," she prompted.  
  
"Except, Ms. Bristow has cut me loose with an extolled assassin  
currently hunting for our blood."  
  
"You want protection?" Astonishment, amusement, disbelief. Unwilling  
to think her loyal bloodhound had gained sentiment and lost his spine.  
  
Smirking wryly, he shook his head. "I want to know where Sydney is."  
  
He used to look at Irina Derevko and see a carbon copy of Sydney  
Bristow. Strong and resilient, ruthless beneath the layers of  
captivating gloss. But there were subtle differences - look-alikes or  
no, Sydney was her father's daughter, and not Irina's. Irina had ever  
been the puppet-master, playing life like a chess match and winning  
without remorse. She was different now - she was happier than she'd  
been, content with watching instead of playing. She'd inadvertently  
passed her legacy unto Sydney. Irina had always planned for her  
daughter to inherit her blackened throne.  
  
She sat back, contemplating this blond, blue-eyed boy parading as a  
man. She found him cold and vicious, little more than an animal at  
times. Lazarey, then Irina herself, had done quite a job on his  
emotional mentality. They'd each broken and reshaped him to their  
liking. Now he was a macabre derision of both their work spliced  
together.  
  
"You want to keep her," she pronounced.  
  
"For a while, yes." It slipped from his mouth unbidden. This was the  
woman's mother, for god's sake.  
  
She continued swiveling in her chair, left to right, methodically  
detached as she appraised him. "You can't control her, you know. Many  
people have tried and failed. Myself included."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," he agreed tersely, smiling.  
  
"And what will you do when she comes after me?"  
  
A hollow laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. "Really, Irina, I  
think the question is, what will you do?"  
  
She matched his smile, mirthless from both. "Mother knows best, Sark."  
  
She turned completely then, the high chair back eclipsing her as she  
faced the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. She said, "I  
had trackers placed on your Mercedes. You found two, bravo, but there  
was a third. It's been transmitting sporadically over the last few  
weeks. It recently started up again just outside of Sipiwesk,  
Manitoba, heading northeast. I have a facility in Gillam which houses  
several Rambaldi artifacts. I don't want them anymore, of course, but  
there are countless people who do." A genuine grin now. "Though one  
less since the unfortunate death of Arvin Sloane."  
  
Sark stood. Their interview was over. Their companionship, their  
understanding of each other, was over. Irina was passing her power to  
Sydney, and with it went Mr. Sark.  
  
"I must warn you not to inform Jack Bristow of my dealings with your  
daughter," he advised. "I doubt very much he would understand the  
gravity of the suffering that led Sydney into this - well, her life of  
crime, if you will.  
  
"Jack understands revenge, Sark. Better than even you," Irina  
observed.  
  
"Perhaps," Sark said with a half-hearted shrug. "But he doesn't  
understand Sydney."  
  
"Neither do you. Neither do I. Not the valiant Agent Vaughn. Not even  
Sydney. No one fully understands Bristow women, Sark."  
  
A challenge. Finally, something to occupy his mind. A complex puzzle  
to keep him guessing. Addictive.  
  
"Goodbye, Irina."  
  
She nodded, smiling faintly, and continued her ardent staring match  
with the sea. Content. The chess match moved on.  
  
-  
  
From Sipiwesk to Stitt, Munk to Ilford, undeniably toward Gillam, into  
the wintry land of Canada, cold and biting and alone.  
  
Sydney knew he would find her. She'd made him work for it.  
  
He entered the rented hotel suite, making a lack-luster sweep of the  
room. No intruders, no irking little red lights hidden on the walls,  
no C4 pushed carelessly under the bed. Just a neat stack of papers on  
the coffee table, a series of photos paper-clipped together depicting  
Sydney and a very-alive Simon, running and laughing and thieving side-  
by-side. There was a zoom-lens picture of Simon holding her carelessly  
in his arms in a sunny locale, chuckling madly together while he  
clumsily slid a blue-diamond ring onto her finger. The last one, his  
autopsy photo, with a note on the back in Ryden's erratic scrawl.  
  
Courtesy of Jack Bristow.  
  
Sark dropped the pictures back onto the table without concern. Scare  
tactics. How prosaic.  
  
He was turning towards the bedroom when a fist lashed out and struck  
him generously across the jaw. Sark spun, teetered, and nearly fell  
until a cruel, flexible wire snaked around his throat and tightened.  
He stumbled back against a solid, immovable frame.  
  
"Where is she?" A voice, rough, uncultured, masculine and American.  
Familiar.  
  
"Three seconds, Sarky. Seriously, no qualms here with killing you in  
cold blood."  
  
He couldn't breathe, could barely talk. Sark tugged momentarily at the  
metal wire cutting into his skin then, irritated, he gave up. His  
captor obligingly eased the garroting wire minimally for Sark to  
speak.  
  
"This is all very heroic, Agent Weiss, but what is it you want from  
me?"  
  
The slightest amount of pressure and the hair-thin metal sliced a  
narrow cut along his neck. "Where the hell is Sydney Bristow? Don't  
fuck with me, Sark. Despite your wholly unconvincing denial, I know  
you're on her trail."  
  
Was it something he said, or just the incriminating photos lying  
casually on the coffee table?  
  
"I assure you, Agent Weiss, she is not in my custody. I haven't seen  
her since my breath-taking flight from the CIA."  
  
With an effortless jerk, Weiss sent him slamming into the wall, the  
wire pressing dangerously against Sark's windpipe. "I don't have time  
for this, Sark. The first thing I learned about Sydney is that no  
matter what, trouble somehow always finds her. So tell me, Blondie,  
where is she?"  
  
Fleetingly Sark considered Irina's parting words. Nobody understood  
Sydney Bristow. Amazing. Irina had been wrong. This galling, awkward  
bear holding Sark's life in his hands knew Sydney inside and out.  
Weiss had tracked her half-way across the world and back, and he'd  
instinctively gotten hold of the one man who could help him in his  
search. Wouldn't, but could.  
  
How cute.  
  
Weary of the CIA and all their bumbling beefcakes, Sark jammed his  
elbow under Weiss's ribcage and grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting. A  
satisfying snap, a howl. Weiss released him. Sark seized hold of the  
wire and cracked it like a whip, scoring a bloody groove across the  
agent's temple. An artful kick and Weiss's feet went out from under  
him. Sark calmly drew his Colt M19 and aimed it delightedly at Weiss's  
chest.  
  
He waited for him to squirm. To plead. To beg, if he were lucky. Weiss  
smiled.  
  
"Go ahead," he told Sark. "By all means, shoot me. I mean, then Syd  
will have to kill your whole family, you know? Your mother, any  
siblings, aunts and uncles. Grandparents. You may not give a damn, but  
family's family, right?"  
  
A light-hearted, weighty threat. Yes, killing Eric Weiss would spell  
certain death for Sark. Lazarey will have gotten off lightly to what  
Sydney would do to Sark. Undoing all Sark's grand plans for her,  
destroying her flagging spark of humanity. Weiss didn't know that, of  
course, but kudos to him, nevertheless. He displayed an admirable  
"screw you" spirit with a 45. caliber bullet aimed at his lung.  
  
Sighing in annoyance, Sark offered Weiss an assisting hand. "Come on,  
then."  
  
-  
  
Smiling with glee she spliced the red wire with the blue. Humming a  
Christmas carol, she set the explosives and closed the titanium vault.  
Sauntering without a care, she passed the incapacitated guards on her  
way out the front door.  
  
Dad had always told her violence wasn't the answer.  
  
Who asked?  
  
There was an expected surprise waiting in the Mercedes as she made her  
way down the street. Sark smirked bemusedly from behind the wheel.  
  
"I'm keeping this car," he warned her as she slid in beside him.  
  
"Just keep telling yourself that." Coming from experience, she snapped  
on her seatbelt.  
  
"Ryden's still coming," he told her. He held no expression, his eyes  
guarded by masking black sunglasses.  
  
"That's odd. Simon always said he had the attention span of a poodle,"  
  
He smiled faintly, U-turning off the curbside, cutting off a  
procession of motorist. "My contacts have tracked him to Dauphin. We  
need to stay quiet for a while, Sydney. Lay low until he gives up and  
looks elsewhere."  
  
"Sure," Sydney agreed, pulling a dark metal remote from her jacket and  
pressing the conspicuous red button.  
  
The windshield rattled, orange flickered in the mirrors. Flaming  
pillars of concrete beat down upon the street behind them. Irina's  
warehouse crumbled beneath the sparking explosives Sydney had set.  
  
Sark shot her a disbelieving, venemous look. Very inconspicuous,  
blowing up warehouses and all that. He considered berating her,  
yelling and swearing at her until she either burst into tears or  
planted her heel in his face. He slammed on the gas pedal.  
  
"I do so love your complete disregard for my well-founded  
suggestions," he observed wryly.  
  
She grinned openly at him.  
  
By habit he drove in discreet circles, edging slowly toward their  
eventual destination while carefully shaking off any prospective  
tails. A cheap, 20-room motel. Sark gave her points for imaginative  
hideouts.  
  
"I've brought someone with me," he stated, without elaborating, and  
slid a keycard into the room adjoining hers.  
  
Shock, incredulity, then utter delight written in her eyes when she  
saw. Weiss barely turned to face her before she launched herself into  
his arms.  
  
Her confusion, her relief, her desolation and comfort all sputtered  
out in a strangled cry. "Eric?"  
  
After a brief glance, Weiss ignored Sark, ignored everything but the  
fragile creature clinging turbulently to him, whispering insensibly,  
laughing and sobbing, unbreakable and shattered.  
  
Sark stood in the doorway, transfixed. The woman enveloped in Weiss'  
arms was nothing like the cruel coquette he'd gladly capered with over  
the last few weeks. This woman was the old Sydney Bristow, frightened  
and resilient, desperately in need of an anchor.  
  
Damned if it would be Sark.  
  
He turned, closed the door behind him and camped out in Sydney's  
rented room. Ammunition and cut wires, maps and a wiped laptop  
littered the room. Out of habit he searched the entire length of the  
room; Giving into curiosity, he searched through her belongings.  
  
Two metal cases and a garment bag - precious little of anything other  
than firearms and tech gear. Two changes of clothes and, at the  
bottom, a frayed black jewelry case. Inside was not one but two rings  
- one a blue diamond, the other a white. Two rings from two lost  
lovers. Agent Vaughn had given her only memories.  
  
The woman had terrible luck.  
  
He meticulously packed away her ransacked equipment, leaving no trace.  
There was nothing on the laptop - she'd erased any information before  
leaving that morning. He'd previously learned that precaution the hard  
way.  
  
After hours of brooding, staring at the colorless wallpaper and  
planning his next actions, Sark cautiously entered the adjoining room.  
He smirked humorlessly. They lay sleeping chastely atop the bed,  
Sydney curled comfortably around Weiss. Sark remembered her in a  
similar position, far less at ease, her breath sharp and sporadic  
against his chest. He'd never seen Sydney so entirely relaxed, or even  
remotely content. Irrational, of course, but it seemed to matter  
somehow.  
  
With a hollow laugh Sark realized his mission was complete. She was  
now undeniably Sydney Bristow, vulnerable and naive and as  
infuriatingly conflicted as ever. She didn't need him anymore.  
  
He went back, alone, to the empty room across the hall. Waited, ready. 


	11. Nontoxic

-

**Part 11 : Nontoxic**

-

Safety was unattainable and addictive. Eric was a recurrent link to her past, sweet and secure, unpolluted in his opinion of her by the black deeds she'd done. When Sark had opened the door, looking so grim and angry, Sydney had naturally assumed there was a 12-men taskforce waiting to drag her back to The Covenant. Or kill her. Either one.

But it was Eric. Smiling unapologetically at her, glaring at Sark over her head.

"_Eric?_"

There were tears in his eyes. Eric never cried. He was amusing, sarcastic, the 'funny one', everybody's best friend. He was stronger than any of the heralded heroes back at the Los Angeles CIA headquarters, and he had the guts to cry.

The door closed again, and they were alone. Sark was gone. In Sydney's room, maybe, but she really didn't much care. She clung to Eric like static.

"Is it just me," he said, "Or does that guy _really_ need a girlfriend?"

It started as a ripple, unexpected and cherished. Together they dissolved into vivid chokes of laughter.

-

"Francie didn't like coffee ice cream," she explained softly.

Eric nodded, and took her hand, and laced her fingers through his.

Cleared her throat unsuccessfully. "And then..."

"Then you went medieval on her," he offered.

Sydney nodded. A weary sigh; Eric wrapped and arm around her shoulders. She smiled faintly. "I woke up in a Covenant lab in Scarborough. You could hear the ocean through a window in the corner." She licked her lips nervously. She'd fought like a hellcat to escape these memories. "For the first few months," Eric sharply inhaled through his teeth, "they used manual torture: burns, cuts, lots of stimulants and truth serums. No morphine. Sloane," She shuddered at the name, "had required extensive training to resist torture when I first joined SD-6. After 2 months they realized they wouldn't break me that way, so they moved onto mind games."

Her blunt fingernails dug into his skin.

"They started with Francie - brought in Allison Doren to torment me for a while. Told me I'd killed her, how I ruined her life, how much she hated me. I knew it was Allison but all the drugs and the - the pain. Eric..."

He softly kissed her ear.

"After another few weeks, when I kept resisting, they showed me a file. It was a detailed report on Vaughn." Her voice was raw, creaking. "They told me he'd been there, in the very room I was being kept in, for 2 weeks after he disappeared in Taipei. I don't know, Eric, I - I can't explain it. Just everything was so much... bleaker, in there, I guess, that anything seemed possible. I told myself that Vaughn would never do that, would resist anything the Covenant could do to him, but…"

Sydney was crying, silent broken sobs.

"But I believed them anyway. I gave up on him. They told me he'd betrayed me, just like everyone else I'd ever loved, and I believed them!"

He stroked her feathery hair, smiled consolingly at her.

She swallowed, once, abolished her tears and pressed on.

"In another few months, I couldn't fight anymore. Every minute of every day for almost a year they worked on me. Even when I was asleep they tormented me. Finally, I gave in, and let them break me; let them make me into whatever they wanted. It was all I could do - try to keep a little bit of myself locked away before they killed me altogether. I was gone, Eric. For those three months they used me in the field, I was completely gone. They told me I was Julia Thorne and I accepted it."

A shuddering sigh. One, two, four deep breaths before she could continue.

"I was working for the Covenant for almost three months when they sent me on a major mission with an arms dealer named Simon Walker. We broke into a vault in Algeria together, and by his suggestion we kept half of the money. The Covenant knew, of course, but there was nothing they could do about it. We were both too valuable to them. Simon and I..."

Eric nodded. No explanation needed. He squeezed her shoulders comfortingly.

"About a week later, they sent me, alone, to eliminate a French official they wanted out of the picture. It was easy enough, an antipyrine tablet and mission accomplished, but there was a bodyguard that slipped away. I chased him, followed him to a church just outside Rennes. It was," She licked her lips again, "it was the church I'd seen every day for seven months. In Ockley's lab, on the wall, was a photograph of the church. L'eglise des ames perdus, the Church of Lost Souls. It... It reminded me of who I was."

He soothingly traced patterns on her back; He was there, and he would never let anyone hurt her again.

"It was so hard then, Eric. So much worse than before. I was literally fighting myself. I was trapped in my own body. Then, bit-by-bit, I broke through their training. Ockley knew something was wrong, but he didn't think the procedure could be reversed. I - I tried to kill him. I jammed a scalpel in his throat and ran. Killed 12 others guards escaping, but I did it. I was alone, half insane, and I thought if I returned to L.A. Vaughn would either kill me or drag me back to the Covenant. The only person I thought I could trust was Simon Walker," she laughed. "Don't ask me why."

"You could've have trusted me," Eric whispered. "You can always trust me, Syd. Always."

After that, she continued her explanation with her arms firmly around Eric's waist, cradled tightly in his grasp, away from harm.

"Simon helped me, more than I could ever say. He used his contacts, his money, all of his time helping me take down the Covenant. I told him my sob story, and he accepted it without suspicion. He - he loved me, Eric. And he expected nothing in return. He saved me when I desperately needed to be saved."

A cold-blooded bastard like Simon Walker. Eric smirked. Syd could turn the worst of men into love-struck zombies with just one bat of those chocolate brown eyes.

"We hacked into the Covenant mainframe. Simon then used his contacts to verify the intel that Vaughn was really working for the Covenant. We also discovered a master list of all the Covenant masterminds. It was Simon's suggestion to kill them all."

Sydney was shivering. It was warm inside the rented hotel room.

"One of them was Irina Derevko. She helped them plan and transferred most of her own organization to the control of the Covenant. With it went the unwritten ownership of Mr. Sark."

"Ownership?" He couldn't help it. He chuckled. "You're kidding me, right? Sark doesn't seem the type to enjoy being owned and traded for the highest bidder."

"He's Mom's favorite hound. She ordered him to go to the Covenant," Sydney stated.

"So why is he here? How did you get from our apartment in L.A. to a run-down motel in Canada with a known terrorist waiting in the next room?"

Another restless sigh. He had to understand.

"Simon and I had killed three of the Covenant leaders when they struck back. God, we spent hours just running for our lives, through countless streets and buildings and nightclubs. We were racing against time, just trying to take out as many of our enemies with us before we went down. It was Simon's idea, that I go back to the CIA. He said that even with Vaughn there, it would be safer for me than staying with him. We had nowhere left to hide when I finally went home. Simon -" the tears were back – "he asked me to marry him, just before I boarded the plane to Hong Kong. He said if we ever saw each other again, he'd marry me. He said somehow he'd find me again. So I went to Hong Kong, got into a fight with a team of agents from the Covenant, and ran until I collapsed in an alleyway. It was a risk, fainting when there were agents nearby, but I had to fake head trauma. When Vaughn came to the safe house - Jesus, I was so scared. I thought they'd sent him to bring me back to Scarborough. I tried to escape, as you know, but they knocked me out. Imagine my surprise when I woke up and saw you."

He smiled, and waited. She wasn't near finished.

"Everything was fine, for a while. I couldn't trust Vaughn, but I had to keep my cover. It was so hard, lying to everyone. To you, my Dad, Dixon. Having Vaughn back at the CIA was the last thing I wanted, but I had to act like the old Sydney, and I needed to keep an eye on him. I'm so sorry, Eric. I thought he was a double. I thought he was a traitor."

Another light, tender squeeze. Nothing she did could lessen Eric's friendship.

"When the CIA got a mark on Simon, and they sent me in... he knew. He knew they would kill him if they could. He knew it could happen, but he took the chance anyway. He realized the second he saw me that night in Sevilla that he had to play dumb, pretend he knew me only as Julia Thorne. He knew it could get him killed but he did it anyway, to keep my cover."

She was struggling now. He kissed her forehead, her hair, hugged her tightly.

"I love my Dad so much, Eric. Whenever I needed him he was always there. He's done so much for me, but, Eric... I hate him. I still love him, but I can't look at him anymore without knowing he's the man who killed Simon. He-"

Hysteria now.

"He killed Simon! I hate him, Eric, he killed my Simon!"

-

Alone again. Staring at the blank wall and breathing steadily through his nose. Calm, efficient. Mute to the suppressed, indecipherable yells across the hallway. Who was he to kick the door down and tell that CIA lapdog to let Sydney cry if she wanted to? To interrupt the grand moment of truth?

Gritting his teeth, Sark leaned back into the frayed armchair. Sydney was so much more fun when she was bad.

-

"It went from bad to worse after Sark escaped. First with Simon, and the NSC snooping around, then Allison came back. After Allison escaped - I can't explain it. I knew Sark would figure out I killed Lazarey, knew he would join up with Covenant to get revenge. But he didn't know... he didn't know what the Covenant would do to him. They had the same game plan in mind for him when he turned up looking for work. I know, I know, heartless bastard who deserves all the pain in the world. I know it, Eric. But I couldn't let another person, no matter how despicable, go through what happened to me. I just couldn't, Eric." A half-hearted shrug. "Beside, Lauren was a few days away from pronouncing me a murderer, so not much lost, right?"

"She did. She found another copy of the tape," Eric explained. "She didn't tell the NSC. She'd on your side. So is Vaughn. We all are, Syd."

A maudlin laugh. Sydney slid off the bed and began pacing restlessly. After a moment - "I caught up with Sark in Britain. That was an interesting conversation, I'll tell you. I think it was the first time outside of SD-6 that I laid eyes on him and didn't immediately commence in kicking his ass."

Eric grinned. "Well, nobody's perfect."

She laughed again, forcedly genuine, and she was ready again. Tears pushed aside and she would finish her tale or die trying.

"I don't know what happened to him after that. I met him again in France, stole his car, and left. He went back to the Covenant, and I went to Italy to meet with Sloane."

"You didn't -" he gasped, disbelieving.

"No. Sark did. He resurfaced just as I was about to, though. Honestly, Sloane was an egotistical little bastard, wasn't he? He thought I'd come for drinks and a chat."

"So Sark killed Sloane? Any viable reason, or was he just ruining the decor for Mr. British Badass?"

Another laugh, unable to stop herself. "I don't really understand it, either. He says he wants to take out the Covenant for himself."

"So if he's got a handle on the whole assassination front, why are you still hanging around? Why don't you come home?"

She bit her lip, tucked her hair behind her ear, and tapped her foot. A bag of nerves. "I can't, yet. I still have a job to do."

"What is it?"

Sydney met his eyes. Dead serious.

"Destroy Rambaldi's artifacts. All of them."

-

They'd just be getting around to business now. Hopefully. There had to be a time limit on heart-to-hearts, Sark assumed.

-

She awoke with a start. Unfamiliar surroundings, someone snoring lightly beside her. Danger.

"You're fine, Sydney," Eric muttered, half-asleep.

With a shuddering laugh she relaxed against him, wondering how much time had elapsed during their unintentional nap. She vaguely remembered Eric comfortingly tugging her down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her for warmth and whispering jokes and sentiments to her until she drifted into a hazy sleep.

Sark would either be long gone or almightily pissed.

-

Eric knocked before swiping his keycard through the lock and opening the door.

"Have some nice TLC?" Sark asked sarcastically, not bothering to rise or take his gaze from the eggshell white wall.

"Save it, Sark. We have to get moving," Sydney snapped.

"Yes," he agreed, and finally stood. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at them decisively. "Agent Weiss, you will escort Sydney back to L.A., where she will continue to act out her cover of amnesia. When asked, you will tell them that Sydney has been in my custody for the last two months against her will. I will follow you to L.A., watch you from afar until Ryden shows up, and take him out when he shows himself. After that, I will go my own way, and our temporary truce is at an end. Agreed?"

She expected him to have a plan, of course, just not one involving A) him following them in the United States, or B) her returning to the United States at all.

Momentary silence.

"Or," said Eric, falsely up-beat, "We could lock Sydney in a vault until Ryden goes after you instead, then an unforeseen predicament kills both you and Ryden in one fell swoop, leaving Sydney to ride away into the proverbial sunset."

Said softly, almost a whisper: "Not now, Eric."

She locked eyes with Sark as Eric went quiet. She nodded, once. Sark's expression never flickered.

Eric, the odd man out, faltered. "I'll just... go pack,"

He squeezed her hand lightly before turning and exiting the claustrophobic hotel room.

"He's better than Flinkman, at least," Sark admitted flatly.

"What about my mother?" she asked bluntly.

He shook his head without concern. "Irina Derevko is no longer my problem, Sydney. And neither are you." Impersonal, professional. "We are done here, Sydney. Once you return to the CIA, any connection we may have formed it defunct. They'll send you on missions to sabotage my plans, you will repeatedly get the better of me, and the world with go on. Any questions?"

Conflicted. Her stance held stiff, hostile, but her face betrayed her. Finally, "Listen, Sark..."

"We're even now," he interrupted. "Your words. We're even now."

She watched him warily, then nodded again. He walked with a purpose toward the door, brushing against her carelessly. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, looked her in the eye with his customary smirk strangely absent.

"Goodbye," he stated emotionlessly, and fixed a scalding, furious kiss on her lips.

He left the room before she could react.


	12. White Chocolate

**-  
Part 12 : White Chocolate  
- **

"_'Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone._' " He spoke in an erratic, screeching voice.

"_Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. I don't see any wine,' she remarked._'" High-pitched, sing-song. Sydney giggled freely.

"_There isn't any,' said the March Hare._

_  
Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily._

_  
"It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said the March Hare._

_  
I didn't know it was your table,' said Alice: it's laid for a great many more than three.'_

_  
Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech._"

Outside, it rained. A low, hazy curtain of humid grey droplets.

-

There was nothing different about that day. He woke to an empty bed, delivered his children to school, drove to work in his 4-year-old BMW. He sat in his office reviewing reports and agent statistics, the latest intel on their disappearing enemies, drank his coffee and signed his name and nothing, nothing told him that a maelstrom was coming.

A brisk phone call. Security section.

"Agents Weiss and Bristow are here to see you."

The phone to his ear, he stared at Jack Bristow across the desk.

"Send them up," he ordered.

-

Torture, bullet wounds, knife wounds, bruises, burns, broken bones. A traumatic childhood and a lifetime of following gruesome orders. All that he could withstand, but Sydney Bristow shockingly and frequently drove him over the edge.

Oh, he knew she would take the car. Anymore Sark didn't really care. But her insistence on keeping things even, of stripping him of his right for revenge...

He instantly noticed the narrow strip of electrician tape blocking the deadbolt in the door to her vacated hotel room. A gentle push, the door slid open. On the table, the admired Dakota T-76 rifle, a note scribbled hectically nearby.

_The trigger guard is slightly rusted. Be careful when it's cold outside._

A car for a sniper rifle. Fair trade, by their profession's standards. Grunting with annoyance, he shouldered the rifle and ripped the tape from the doorway. Waited 20 minutes - he followed them at a distance down the torn, empty highway.

-

Jack knew something was wrong. Right. Different.

Sydney was back.

He felt her the second she walked into the cluttered office, stepped off the elevator arm-in-arm with Weiss and surveyed her lost colleagues with uncertainty. No one noticed, at first, swept their gazes past her and didn't give it another thought.

Marshall reacted first. His scattered explanation stumbled to a halt and he ran, dropped his newly designed trinket onto the tabletop and jogged toward the weary duo. He hugged Sydney, took in her battered appearance without comment and hugged her ecstatically.

Silence. A thousand crucial operations going at once and the CIA taskforce went completely quiet. Stared. Wondered.

"Syd?" Vaughn, from across the room, stood frozen beside his wife. Somewhere between tears and a grin.

Dixon watched from within his office, face-to-face with her father.

"Is she really there?" Jack said emotionlessly, his back to the scene.

"She's alive, Jack. She's here. Weiss actually found her this time."

-

"_Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. Why, you might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see!"'_

_  
You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, that "I like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!'_

_  
You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, which seemed to be talking in its sleep, that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing as "I sleep when I breathe"!_'"

Smiling softly, she lay back across the couch. She glanced through the empty window. Somewhere, nearby, Sark was watching. Waiting.

-

Fading bruises, careful bullet wounds inflicted with happy cruelty. A thousand and one angry cuts along her body, but she was intact, unhurt, ready to report back to duty, eager to continue the search for her feigned missing memories. Eric was constantly at her side, squeezing her hand as she explained her absence under the harsh lights of the debriefing room, under the horrified stare of her loved ones. When Vaughn called out for her she nearly snapped. She released her hold on Eric and stepped aside for the others to pass.

"Syd, I was so scared," he whispered.

Nothing she could do. She'd hurt him unintentionally, betrayed him in every way, though he was oblivious. She quieted him with a "Shhh", and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Across the room, Lauren stiffened, but Sydney chastely held the man they both loved as he fought despair and relief.

"I'm so sorry," she told him, but he shook his head. Released her, smiled at her, ran a hand along her cheek and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"You never have to apologize to me, Syd," he explained.

Black terror, rising to her chest. No, no, not love. Not friendship. Not forgiveness. She couldn't withstand his kindness.

With effort she avoided his gaze, focused forcefully on Lauren, plastered a smile on her face and moved forward. "Lauren," she began.

"Sydney. I'm so glad your safe," the blonde acknowledged.

An awkward hug. After an uncertain moment, "Eric told me you found a second copy of the Lazarey tape."

Lauren nodded, clenching her jaw. "You're secret's safe with me, Sydney."

"I know." A genuine smile now. Liked or not, Sydney respected her. "Thank you so much -" she lowered her voice - "for everything."

Confused, Lauren watched her imagined rival warily.

Just out of hearing, Vaughn watched from the doorway, curious and cautious.

"I never said thank you," Sydney whispered. "For taking care of Vaughn. Thank you for - for saving him. He's not mine anymore, but at least he's alive." A wry, mirthless grin. "I've almost killed him twice, once figuratively and once literally. I'm so thankful that he found you, Lauren. Sure, I hate you for stealing my boyfriend, but still..."

A morbid joke. Lauren smiled, laughed, nodded at the taller woman and acknowledged that, though very different, they were both on the same side.

"You're very welcome, Sydney. Believe me,"

A pat on the shoulder, a bright smile shared, and Lauren moved away. After one last glance Vaughn escorted her out. Sydney exhaled through her teeth, the smile dropped, and she bit her tongue to battle tears.

Repairing bridges. Much harder when you're content to watch them burn.

"Did I really just see that?"

Eric, standing in the doorway, the same spot Vaughn had stood moments ago. He was grinning, at first, and instantly went to her side when he saw her distress.

"Just take me home," Sydney groaned.

-

He caught them in the parking lot. Weiss had just closed her door and was moving to the driver's side when he tapped her window. She met his eyes with a flurry of emotion - happiness, fright, relief, reproach. Steeling herself, she stepped onto the pavement and sunk her face into the stiff cashmere folds of her father's coat.

"Sydney -" he began, but she shook her head. After a prolonged moment, she stepped out of his embrace.

"I love you too, Dad," she murmured, and climbed back into the car.

Weiss offered a slight wave to Jack as he steered the Mercedes into the street.

Secure behind the black-tinted windows of today's vehicle of choice, Sark watched in amusement. He'd left off being good in the first place partly because it left too much conflict.

Partly.

-

"'_A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and, just as she came up to them, she heard one of them say Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!'_

I couldn't help it,' said Five, in a sulky tone. Seven jogged my elbow.'

On which Seven looked up and said That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!'

You'd better not talk!' said Five. I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded.'"

Her mother hadn't read it with voices. Sydney had insisted. She'd loved the sound of her mother's voice, so smooth, so precise, cool and flawless like summer rain.

Eric read it loud, bombastic, with energy and feeling and desperation to make her smile.

Outside it didn't feel like winter. The air was cold and still, the rain thick and hot, falling straight to the ground unimpeded by the dead wind. A week had gone by and life had stopped. Waiting for a conclusion.

"_Yes, it is his business!' said Five. And I'll tell him - it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'_

_  
Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun Well, of all the unjust things -' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low._

_  
Would you tell me, please,' said Alice, a little timidly, why you are painting those roses?'_"

With one hand Eric answered the ringing cordless phone, finishing his sentence before turning his attention to the caller. Idly Sydney turned and again stared out the fogged window, unconsciously searching for the vigilant, blackened guardian watching, hidden, over her.

Dimly she became aware of Eric, listening closely to the person on the other end while muttering in admirable obscurity. He nodded once, gestured insignificantly, dropped the book onto the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. Instantly Sydney rose off the couch, shedding her quilted blanket, and sat on the arm of his chair.

"Mike's in the hospital again," he explained, hanging up the phone. "He's been having trouble lately. It hasn't been healing as well as expected."

_'It'_. The knife wound Sydney inflicted that wretched night in Ibiza.

Eric was suddenly avoiding her gaze. Inspecting the wall, the carpet, the insignificant watercolor painting they'd purchased together as a housewarming gift to themselves. "There was some minor damage to the lung that went undetected for several weeks. He collapsed at work the day you disappeared. He's back in rehab, but he refused to take time off until they found you."

Desperate for a distraction, Eric set the phone on the coffee table with aching slowness. "Listen, Syd," he whispered. "I'll believe you. Tell me it was for your protection and I'll believe you."

She couldn't answer. Barely understood and didn't want him to explain.

"Tell me you didn't try to kill him in cold blood and I'll believe you. Tell me you didn't decide to kill the man you thought was a traitor." He was struggling to remain calm, struggling to breathe, to look her in the eye and see her as pure and good as ever she was. "Tell me... tell me you didn't stick that blade in Vaughn with the intention of snuffing out a Covenant operative."

She grabbed his arm. She didn't know, couldn't tell him.

"Damnit Syd, tell me it was Julia! Tell me that bastard Walker messed you up, made you stop fighting the Covenant programming for a minute. Tell me... God, Syd, tell me you didn't want to kill Mike."

Begging. He met her eyes and begged her to be the person he thought she was.

"I..," Her lips were dry, her throat aching, the acrid taste of tears burning her eyes. "Eric -"

With a jerking, stumbling movement he seized hold of her hand, squeezed it tightly, and waited for an unwanted answer.

Sometimes lying was easier than breathing.

"Simon would have killed him. It was so hard, Eric. Sometimes I hated him but I loved him, too. You have to understand. He thought - he thought I could do it. He thought I was like him. Yes, I tried to kill Vaughn." She couldn't loose her only friend. "But I couldn't. I'm not... I'm not like Simon, Eric. I thought he'd betrayed me, but I could never kill Vaughn."

He held her gaze, ran fingers along her abused face, offered a slow smile. "I know that, Syd. I always knew that."

Torn, shattered. She painted a matching smile on her lips and accepted his friendly embrace. No, Eric didn't know. He only saw the person she was desperate to become again.

-

He insisted on finishing the book. He read it aloud, in a creaking, laughing tone, gesturing farcically, jostling against her while she rested against his shoulder. Years of training kept her alive that dark afternoon; No, she wasn't happy, not now, but Eric needed her to be. She smiled for him and crumbled inside.

"_Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister. Why, what a long sleep you've had!'_"

Sleep. Alluring and repellant. What would meet her when she finally closed her eyes?

-

Across the lawn, hidden in a deep patch of willow fern. Degrading, to be sure, but pride was useless on the job.

Keeping his free hand on the trigger, Sark listened with one ear to his contact calling him from Ontario.

With an efficient snap he put away the cell phone, replacing the sighter lens against his cheek. Ryden was on his way.

-

Dinnertime. Eric talked loudly in the kitchen, making a mess, stirring spaghetti noodles as Carrie looked on in amusement. In the living room, Vaughn relaxed in an armchair, looking pale and determined, insisting he was fine to Lauren, hovering beside him. Jack seated nearby, ignoring Marshall as he babbled indiscernibly about his upcoming parenthood. Dixon left a message on the answering machine, leaving his regrets at his absence. His daughter was ill with the flu.

The faded sun sank through the continual rain.

Sydney rose from her seat beside the fireplace, offered a slight, dismissive wave to the questioning looks of her guests, and walked out the front door. Down the sidewalk, through the winding, suburban neighborhood. No direction. Through the empty, leaf-scattered streets, through hazy rain plastering her hair to her face, soaking her clothes, going unnoticed.

She stopped abruptly. She'd never been this far before, never had an inclination to view the quiet brick houses, the tiny scenic parks cut out between homes. She stopped in the empty road, everything green around her, cold and hot at the same time, warm rain beating upon her protectively.

"Where are you?"

Sydney looked around her, turned in a full circle, scanned the canny shrubbery overgrowing along the quaint white fences.

"I know you're there, Julian. Where are you?"

Silence for a moment. She didn't call for him again, but continued searching through the dense, flowered foliage.

A faint touch on her shoulder and she spun. Her rifle over his shoulder, dressed in black, looking weary from many nights without sleep. She'd been in L.A. for 6 days without any sign of Ryden. Sark looked down at her without any trace of his usual insolent smirk.

All at once she could breathe.

"I'm not -" she faltered, "I'm not either one."

He was close, inches away, his skin cool and damp. He nodded, once, then brushed away the clinging hair streaking her face with a slow, clumsy hand.

They stood at a standoff, watching each other warily, two injured animals locked together in a cage. Scorching raindrops, all around them.

"You don't owe them anything," he told her abruptly. "Nothing."

She nodded softly, turning away from him and walking carefully toward home. She didn't look back; she knew he was there.

-

"Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."

She hid a sarcastic laugh. Ironic, really, that this man should cause so much trouble when he had the personal charisma of a histrionic mime. Irina absently waved him into a seat.

"I'm sure you've heard of my recent run-in with our renegade operatives," he explained, tugging at his ill-advised necktie. "Yeah, well, you know the plan, of course. I want to know the price."

A quirk of her eyebrow, a mask of curiosity. "The price?" she prompted.

"Bloody hell, woman, you know what I mean. I kill your daughter and her little boy toy, what do I do to keep you off my back? What'll I owe you?"

Ryden was a bishop. Deadly, strong, fallible. Sark a rook, Sydney a pawn. Make it across the board and she would be turned to a queen.

"Well?"

She looked up from the smooth tabletop, met his eyes between the distorting lenses of his scratched glasses. A feline smile as she leaned forward.

"Before his miraculous epiphany, Arvin Sloane procured then later disassembled all the pieces of The Telling," she explained to the quieted younger man. "I know the Covenant is in possession of many of them. Find the rest and give them to me. You may keep what you already have."

A snare, an inescapable plot in which Ryden had no choice but to play the fool. He inelegantly offered his hand to shake. "Done."

"_'So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality-the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds-the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep- bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherdboy-and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard-while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.'_"


	13. Cruise Control

Part 13 : Cruise Control  
-

It rained. And rained. Between the dreary sheen, it drizzled.

Sark was becoming irrevocably fed up with this sniper business.

Oh, it had its perks. Watching Sydney Bristow 24 hours a day, for one. Watching her brush her teeth at night, weary and nervous, itching to drag back the drape beside the square window cut into the bathroom wall, knowing she never would because he was there for a reason. Watching her open her eyes in the morning, stretch with tantalizing oblivion before she remembered she was never alone and subconsciously tugged at the hem of her T-shirt.

Perks, yes, but dangerous ones. Sark was becoming increasingly infatuated with the illustrious agent, and everyone and their aunt knew that Sydney Bristow was best kept at a distance. The flame that attracted so many inevitably led to a third degree burn.

Truthfully, she'd always fascinated him. Always challenged him, beckoned him to danger - caused most of it, actually. She was like Irina and so much more. The smooth allure of her mother but with the warmth to back it up.

There was very little to do but sit and brood on the matter, he argued, when crouching all day in a patch of Evergreen shrubs.

Movement, on the porch. He brought the rifle up, realigning the sighter. Oh, beautiful. Eric Weiss in boxers and ragged socks. Bending over, nonetheless. The agent retrieved the morning paper and stepped back into the house. Thankful, Sark returned to his vigil of Sydney, seated primly at the kitchen table, eyes half-closed as she threw back a cup of coffee.

Weiss would be talking from the hallway now, reminding her to stay alert, then she would wash her mug, tell him she'd eaten, and dress for work. On cue, her eyes snapped wide and she replied to his comment on the weather. When Weiss next came into view, he was shrugging into a shirt.

"Oh, you'll dress for her, but not for me?" Sark muttered beneath his breath.

Sydney, smiling at something Weiss had said. Sark noticed her smile had been strained lately, stale, her work never done until she closed her bedroom door at night. She'd look out her window for a moment or two, blind but knowing he was there, then she'd shake her head and fall into bed. She was tired. She wanted it done.

-

Sometimes she wondered how they crafted their blindfolds. How they meticulously held their hands over their eyes, refused to let in any light, fooled themselves into thinking that anything was black and white.

"He asked you only about the Covenant?" Dixon this morning, and tomorrow it would be her father. Vaughn on weekends, stopping by to chat with Weiss or calling just to see if everything was A-OK.

"Pretty much. He asked me about my mother, sometimes. Mostly about the Covenant. He was worried that I might remember something that they don't want me to know. Really I think he was just waiting to see if I would crack before he killed me."

Not his style, not at all. Sark was many things, but in no ways patient. In the custody of a vengeful Sark, Sydney would've been dead within a day. Should've been. Though she told a lie, there were certain parallels. In this glass world, one of them should have been dead by now.

"What did you tell him?" Lauren asked from across the table, reading off a printed file. Everyone else was too personal to ask her that.

"Nothing. I gave him nothing," Sydney said flatly, and they smiled. Vaughn, Jack, Marshall, Dixon, Eric - she was their serrated champion. No one could beat her, not even a cold bastard like Sark.

"Nothing? Not even some false information?" Lauren again, doing her job.

Sydney shook her head.

"Did you know at the time where you were being held?" asked Dixon, cautious again. He didn't trust his own shadow these days.

"No. I remembered being knocked out outside my house, then I woke up again strapped to a metal chair. The only person I ever saw was Sark. I think he was working alone." Lifeless, mechanic. She'd told them all this a week ago. Eric listened carefully in case she slipped.

Silent nodding, more pity. Poor Sydney, no memory, a married boyfriend, and now tortured by a homicidal SPECTRE throwback. Poor Sydney. We like her, she's strong. What's for dinner?

"We'll find him, Sydney." Her father this time, looking earnestly at her from around Eric's guarding shoulders. "We'll find Sark, and I swear to you he will regret the day he ever laid eyes on a Bristow."

She's heard this before. She wanted to go home. They thought offering her revenge would help, would give her the support she needed. A lie to keep them happy, and they think they're giving her friendship.

"Sark has been in this game far too long." Now back to Dixon, grave and astute. "It's time he was put into retirement. That man has messed with the CIA long enough."

Fleetingly Sydney considered just how monumentally screwed Sark really was.

"We lost track of him almost immediately after Agent Weiss found you in Manitoba. Our sources say he probably went to Britain, which is generally where the Covenant is run. We'll find him, Sydney, but it'll take some time. Have patience."

Will the real Dr. Phil please stand up, please stand up?

Dixon cleared his throat, jostled his placidly stacked papers. "Also," he began.

Business, now. Time to pay attention. The last bit was just lip service to traumatized Sydney. This was important.

"Things have been unusually quiet of late. With Derevko presumed dead, the Alliance disbanded and the Rambaldi mystery put on hiatus, the only real players have been the Covenant." A sympathetic nod towards Sydney. Three years ago she would have trusted Dixon with the sun. "But even they've died down these past weeks. No operations, no deals that we know of. They're either brewing up something big or deteriorating."

A creep with neon hair and a limp is calling the shots now, what operations would you be running? Sydney forced herself to take a shallow drink of the tepid water ringing the tabletop in front of her.

"We're gathering intel. Until then, keep your eyes open. Dismissed."

She was out of her chair like a shot, flipping shut her papers and heading for the door. Inevitably, Lauren and Vaughn were right behind her, Marshall pressing behind them. She held the door impatiently, applied a grin to her face. They trooped past her, smiling, nodding, eager to step away from the undefined discomfort surrounding their errant friend.

"Sydney."

No, no, no. No one bothered her at her desk. No one dragged her away from her work to offer empty comfort. She idly considered the many imaginative uses for a paperclip as she swiveled in her chair with another extorted smile.

"Hey, Dad. What's up?"

He pulled out a vacated chair, dragged it across to sit beside her. Smiling at her in the way that used to make her feel so safe, before he used it when he told her Simon Walker was no longer a threat. "I wanted to..."

He'd always been lousy with words.

"I love you, Sydney. I realize I don't say it often enough, don't give you the support that you need. But I love you more than anything in this world."

Why does everyone brush her hair behind her ear?

Keep smiling. Keep breathing. In, out. She grasped his hands warmly. "I love you too, Dad." Her throat hurt.

A relieved, muted sigh. "Are you busy tonight? I know Agent Weiss usually cooks for you, but I was hoping we could catch up, perhaps. Talk. I've missed you, sweetheart."

Sydney didn't want a hug. She didn't want to be told how much they missed her. She didn't want TLC every time she walked into the office, didn't want compassionate looks every time they asked her about her missing years, or the weeks supposedly spent being tortured by Sark. She wanted a dark, soundproof room on an uncharted island in the Pacific Ocean.

"I've missed you so much, Dad," she whimpered. Strangled herself with tears because this was Jack Bristow and he couldn't be fooled by feigned meaningful silences. She moved into his expectant arms.

-

"Jesus, Syd, relax. He's your father. He loves you. Even if he does suspect something, he sure as hell won't go to the NSC. Would it really be such a bad thing if he knew all this?"

She froze, halfway through stringing dangling fake diamonds through her ears, stared at him in the reflection of the mirror she stood before. "Yes," she told him. "He can't know, Eric. Trust me, he can't know."

"Why not?" He followed her into her bedroom, stood in the doorway as she fished shoes from her closet.

"It's complicated," she insisted. "Black or red?"

"Red. Why not?"

"Because he's still in love with my mother. Sandals or ankle straps?"

"Hell, I don't know, Vaughn's the fashion guru. What does your mother have to do with telling Jack where you've been the last 2 years?"

"Because he'd want to know why she helped the Covenant, resulting in A) her seeking reconciliation between us, or B) her somehow furthering her as-of-yet unknown plan for world domination inevitably involving me as a guinea pig for Rambaldi's newest self-help contraption." Shoes, bracelets, earrings, purse. She headed to the door with Eric in her wake.

"Sydney, listen -" he began.

The Bristow Women Look. One of the few things she shared with her mother. _'I love you and I know your worried, but shut your trap, angel.'_ She kissed him on the cheek and moved down the entry hall.

"I won't be back 'til late. Say 'hi' to Vaughn for me, okay?" she called over her shoulder, tugging open the door.

First she noticed the shadow; a large, irregular form blotting out the overhead light on the stoop. The pistol, a polished Colt aimed at her heart, held by a rough hand gripping the handle too tightly for perfect accuracy. The face, a haunted, grinning face blurred by the surrounding light.

"Hey there, Julia," Ryden proclaimed.

A single bullet, blood spattering across Sydney's face. Ryden crumpled onto the Welcome mat.

Process, compartmentalize, act. She sprang forward before Ryden even hit the floor and snatched up his firearm. Gunman's stance, pistol at arm's length with her free hand on the trigger guard, scanning right to left.

"It's clear. Weiss, go check the back." Sark, half-concealed in the Evergreens separating the property from their neighbor's.

"Go," Sydney urged when Eric hesitated, lowering the Colt. With a warning glance at Sark, Eric disappeared into the house.

"It's done," Sark murmured, stepping onto the porch. Absently he locked the Dakota rifle.

Focus. Don't think. Get it done. "You'll take the body?"

Nodded. He crouched and pulled Ryden up, settling the corpse onto his shoulders without any outward signs of discomfort.

He let out an abrupt laugh.

"Cheerio, then,"

Unwillingly, a chagrined smirk twisted Sydney's lips. "What, no goodbye kiss?" she asked wryly.

At once she knew she'd said the wrong thing. That the way his eyes ran over her was anything but businesslike.

He stepped forward and, with the cuff of his sleeve, lightly wiped away Ryden's blood streaked across her face.

"You're beautiful," he said, gesturing to her expensive outfit, the dramatic sweep of her hair, the bloodied necklace she hadn't worn since Danny had given it to her on Valentine's Day so many years back. He added, "A red dress is a good investment for our line of work."

A grim laugh shared. This was the end of their truce, their companionship. The next time she saw him she'd be kicking his ass over some useless computer disk.

"The CIA is out for your blood. They'll make you pay for kidnapping me."

"I suppose so," Sark observed. "It's nice to know it takes roughing up one of their agents to get the Central Intelligence Agency pissed off at a wanted terrorist."

"Dad's got a new vendetta. He doesn't play nice."

"No, I suspect he doesn't." There was nothing left to say.

"Au revoir, ma tueur doux," he told her. French. They'd never speak that language again without the unavoidable memory of Etrelles. "I'll see you in Chicago."

"What?"

He shrugged. And smirked.

She shook her head softly, and he turned away; offered a slight wave as he slunk into the night, leaden with the dead body of Finn Ryden. He heard her close the door, but didn't bother to look back. _Ma tueur doux_. My sweet killer.

-

_She seems dressed in all the rings  
Of past fatalaties -  
so fragile yet so devious.  
She continues to see it,  
Climatic hands that press  
her temples and my chest.  
Enter the night that she came home  
Forever._

_(Vermillion, _Slipknot_)  
_  
-

"Not hungry?"

Exhausted. Wary. Afraid of her own skin.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"That's understandable."

She nodded, pushing her pasta around her plate.

He settled back against his chair, his arms resting on the tabletop. He observed her while she held a vicious staring match with her dinner. Around them, families chattered, warmed the expensive Italian restaurant with laughter, leaving them isolated.

She couldn't stand his smile. The small, proud grin he got whenever he saw her nowadays. Jack had only discovered how remarkable his daughter was just when she'd begun hating him.

Hate, love, anger, sympathy toward her father. Sydney didn't want his love now. She didn't want faux hugs and soothing words. She wanted a Ruger and a lineup of all the middle-aged flyboys who'd screwed up her life so unanimously.

"I know you're hurting, Sydney."

Process, compartmentalize, act. It'd become her personal mantra of late. She dragged her gaze up to meet Jack's eyes.

"I want you to know I'm sorry."

The taste of sour pasta in the back of her throat. "For what?"

"Everything. For letting you go."

One sentence and suddenly it didn't matter anymore. She took one look at the remorse written across his exhausted features, and none of it mattered anymore.

He'd killed Simon. He'd cut her off as a child. He hadn't been there when she needed him most. He was the only parent she had.

"Oh, Daddy." Her voice was jagged.

He nodded quietly, silencing her. He understood. There were lies on top of secrets beneath the deceit that made up their lives, but simple love could be based on truth. She could hate him, and despise him, and distrust everything he did, and she could forgive him.

No tears. Show no weakness. The two remaining Bristows smiled at each other from across the cluttered candle-lit table.


	14. The Hero In My Head

Part 14 : The Hero In My Head  
-

When the wind howled and her mind whispered viciously in her ear, driving away sleep, she flicked on the light at her bedside and read for hours. She never slept much anymore; the endless mystery kept her awake, the blurred lines of the text soothing her tortured body in a way rest could not. She rejected fiction, biographies, best sellers or classics. She read the Notebook.

Careless, perhaps. Lying peacefully on her side table, unprotected, free to any burglars who miraculously made it past the battalion of hired guards scrounging the hallways.

At night, in the sparse quiet hours when her work let her rest, Irina ignored the call of sleep and read about her daughter. About her beautiful little girl, the woman of destiny, the champion the prophet had devoted his life to hundreds of years before she was even born. Irina was proud, and sickened. Sydney, though great, would never have a happy life. Nothing normal. Milo Rambaldi had been saddened by this. He wrote in his notebook with sadness, remorse. He'd written of her daughter as if he'd known her, as if she were a dear friend whose fate he'd much rather not know.

It'd taken years to decipher the notebook. When Irina had had it stolen from the CIA vaults, she'd thought only of one-upping her foes. Countless tricks and codes, jumbled lines of dizzying text that required careful calculations to read correctly. For all his grandiose plans Rambaldi's truest gamble had been his notebook: his artifacts, his machines, great in and of themselves but merely cover for his hardest puzzle. In the end he'd simply told a story. Nothing devastating, no weapons or instructions. A simple, dark story.

She read it at night, blackness surrounding her, doused in faded lamplight. Marveled at the detail of Rambaldi's knowledge, ached from the suffering he warned of. Sydney's life was foretold. It could be changed, of course. There was always a choice. Rambaldi was clear to a fault on this point. It could be changed. Irina would fight until death to ensure that it wasn't.

-

"OK, I'll bite. Why are you not freezing?"

She smiled lightly and sipped at her coffee, watching the orange crescent sun striking the still waters. "It's not so bad."

"No, Syd, it's really not."

He was looking at her again, with that serious, earnest look, partially unsettling because his customary smile was absent.

"Hey there, Mr. Double Meaning," she noted.

Absently Eric wrapped an arm around her shoulders, turning back to watch the shimmering sunrise. She'd insisted they come. January in L.A. and she'd woken him at 4:30 to go watch the sunrise on the beach.

"It's not so bad anymore, Syd," he told her.

No, it wasn't so bad. Everything was falling back into place. Yes, every relationship she had (omit Eric and, strangely, Sark) was based on some lie or another, on false affliction or feigned affection. Yes, she still lived in a world of madness, where she had a 9mm. put to her head almost weekly and she dressed as some type of hooker with shocking regularity. All true.

But it wasn't so bad.

This, she could handle.

"You did it, Syd. It's over." He sounded so sure. "You beat the Covenant."

Yes and no. It was a monster with its head cut off. She shook her head.

"Not completely. There's still one person left, Eric. There's still one person who could keep it going."

His grip tightened considerably. His smile entirely gone now, Eric seemed harsher, less of a teddy bear and more of a man, angry and helpless and dangerous. "No, Syd. Don't go down that road. She's you're mother, baby, she loves you. She won't take it up again. She wouldn't hurt you like that. I won't let you hurt yourself like that,"

She was unconvinced, staring guardedly at the flaming sunrise and wanting to believe him.

"You're safe here, Sydney. You're safe. Derevko won't take control of the Covenant. She's retired, remember? She's gone for good."

She'd accept that. For once she'd listen to a lie and let herself believe it.

"Besides," Eric added, "even if everything does hit the fan, I figure, hey, you an' me can just disappear and buy a beach house in Maui with that 800 million that mysterious showed up in my private account last month."

An impish grin, a ripple of laughter that bubbled up through her throat and blossomed. They were laughing, hard, wrapped firmly in a blanket atop the sand, and finally Sydney noticed the icy wind burning her skin.

-

"Haven't seen you in a while."

What did she expect? He'd cast her off like an ill-fitting jacket. So she was bitter. Since when was that his problem?

"So how's good ol' Syd?"

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Allison, dear."

He was half-hidden in the shadows, lost in the murk surrounding the silent warehouse where Allison had set up operations. A variety of computer technology on the stained metal table, a sleeping bag in the corner, but then she'd never been as finicky as Sark about her surroundings. Two years in prison and Sark was desperate to escape the feel of concrete beneath his feet.

"What do you want?" She lit a cigarette, sit atop the table and exhaled white smoke through her nose. Petulant, now. She hated being second best.

"I'm going to Chicago tomorrow," he explained. "Perhaps you'd like to help."

Her eyes snapped up at that, stared at him incredulously for a moment. "You're good, Sark, but not that good."

He shrugged. First and foremost, Sark was an arrogant bastard. "I beg to differ," he drawled.

Another pull on the cigarette, a cliched distraction. Finally, "Why me?"

A hollow laugh, cruel and taunting. "I thought you might like some action, what with your employers mysteriously quiet these past weeks."

She ground the frail burning stick into the tabletop, leaving a blackened mark on the rusted surface. "Do you really think you can keep her, Sark?"

Changing subjects abruptly, sudden movements. Old school tricks to keep him off balance. She'd get nothing from him.

"Honestly? I don't think she has much of a choice." Answered truthfully, show her who held the power in this cutting little web of theirs.

Allison hissed through her teeth. Defeated and she knew it. She crossed her legs, just to be moving. "Do you love her?"

Sark leaned his head against the filthy granite wall, shook his head in exaggerated annoyance, spoke as if to a child. "I want her, Allison. Love doesn't exist in our world."

She nodded. She couldn't blame him, not really. Didn't mean she wouldn't try.

"I can pay you depending on the success of the mission. You know how it goes," Sark said, hands in his pockets, unconcerned. "I want you on surveillance. I've procured invitations. You'll be in the crowd, watching in case any of our beloved friends show up. I'll do the op work."

She was trapped. Yes or no, screwed either way.

"Let's go."

-

They watched with a smile. It'd been years since they'd seen her innocence shine through.

Oblivious, she giggled aloud as Weiss pushed against the armrest, sending her chair spinning in a tight circle.

"She's still our Syd," Dixon observed.

"No," corrected Jack. "But she can still take our breath away."

Suddenly Weiss whirled around, pinned the two men with a deer in headlights look through the glass walls of the conference room, uttered a syllable with which lip-reading skills was not required. Sydney braked with her heel, saw her father and boss, and let out a howl of mortified laughter.

"We were early," she explained, blushing madly as the entered the room.

"She'd never sat in the new chairs," Weiss offered.

Any reprimands were delayed by the arrival of the Vaughns, Marshall trailing behind them, fumbling with the papers he carried in his arms.

"Good morning, everyone," Dixon began. He continued over the half-hearted chorus of responses. "As we all know, we've recently enjoyed something of a hiatus of major operations from opposing organizations. If it sounds like a positive thing, I assure you that it is quite the contrary. It makes the NSC extremely, and rightfully, nervous."

Lauren stiffened slightly. Her pale face was ragged from overwork.

Dixon briskly punched the button on the tiny black remote, a grainy mugshot appeared on the slide screen, and instantly Sydney's good humor evaporated. She had not missed that slide projector.

"This," Come to think of it, she hadn't missed that grave, serious tone, either, "is Maxwell Quick. He's a prominent Chicago businessman with reputed ties to the black market."

Sydney stirred uneasily. Chicago. Sark.

Oh, hell.

"He's extremely reclusive, lives in the outer city in a mansion guarded at all times by a 50-man taskforce."

Hesitantly Marshall slid her an open file, an endless line of black texts detailing Quick's versatile life.

"Once a year he opens his doors to society's best, in an extravagant gala tomorrow night. We always send in surveillance teams to infiltrate the party, just to see if anything's amiss."

"This year," Jack cut in, "we have good intel that Quick is currently safekeeping a disk in his vault containing a master list of several well-known arms dealers and the location of their respective stockpiles. Needless to say, anyone with the disk and the resources could amass a huge collection of weaponry. In the wrong hands, it could be catastrophic."

Sounds like Sark, all right.

"Sydney -" Dixon began.

"Why me?" she whimpered under her breath.

Across the table, Vaughn smothered a laugh.

"I'm sending you in alone this time. Agents Weiss and Vaughn will be on communications. I want you to go in, locate the disk, and switch it with a decoy before it can be stolen. Marshall can set you up with your op tech. Any questions?"

This mission was suicide.

"No, sir."

He nodded, smiled briefly, called the meeting to an end. Jack gave her shoulder a squeeze as he followed Dixon out.

Eric was grinning at her. She could feel it drilling into the back of her head.

She loitered to be the last one out. Eric fell into step with her.

"So how's it going with you and your dad? Every day this week, you know. I take it you've heartily forgiven him?"

Sydney couldn't repress a smile, and a shrug. "Well, yeah. No. I'm not sure. He's been really..."

"Fatherly?"

In the past week Jack had cooked for her, listened to her ramble on about her aches and about absolutely nothing. He'd taken her to the park, pushed her on the swing set. Made her feel like she was 9 years old again.

Fatherly. Yeah.

"We're building. Repairing bridges. You know." She made a meaningless gesture with her hands.

"Hey, Syd!" Marshall, from his cluttered desk across the way. Waving in frenzied panic for her attention.

Shooing Eric off, she plodded through the electronic jungle to Marshall's side. Glancing sideways, he auspiciously heralded her into his office.

"I-I wanted to, y'know, your mission tech," he began, sliding shut the door. Scrambling to his table he snatched up a familiar wristwatch and pressed the sequence of buttons to transmit the bug killer.

"OK, umm, first I've got for you this new comm piece, see, an earring, it's zircon, by the way, not real diamond. That might've interfered with the frequency and besides, who has that kind of funding? So, audio in the earring, your mic is in this bracelet, right, so you'll have to be like, you know, 'I'm just lifting my champagne glass, see, not talking into a hidden mic at all, no sir.' Oh and it's completely untraceable, fools almost any detectors, shouldn't be a problem -"

"Marshall!"

His mouth closed with a click of his teeth.

She was caught between laughing and having an emotional breakdown. Both sounded appealing.

"You did not just wipe out surveillance in your office to tell me about my op tech." She sounded incredulous. "Right?"

"Oh, no, yes, just - y'know, it's kind of awkward." He rolled the wristwatch between his palms, desperate for a distraction.

Sydney took him gently by the shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye. "Marshall," she commanded.

"I know where you were," he blurted out.

The incessant beeping of Marshall's endless supply of technology was the only sound filling the air. He watched her as she reeled back, released her grip on him and held a stiff stance.

"When Sark came to my house," he elaborated. "He wanted me to decode this disk, right. We told you about that."

She was nodding slowly. "You said it was blank."

"It wasn't." He winced as he admitted his lie. His job was his world, his galaxy, albeit far, far away. "It was really - I mean, wow, that was a wicked job of security, whoever did it. There was... written into the firewalls. There was this report. It said you'd escaped Covenant custody and was working with Simon Walker. Didn't say how." He was looking at her pleadingly. As an after-thought, "I didn't tell anybody. Don't worry."

She exhaled deeply, gathering her thoughts before responding. "Listen, Marshall..."

"You don't have to explain," he interrupted hastily. "I understand. Deep cover stuff, right? Like at SD-6. You can't tell any of us what's really going on because it's too dangerous."

He knew. Some if not all of it. He'd skimmed the same report Sark had, gotten an idea of what had happened to her those cruel two years. He hadn't told a soul.

Damnit. More tears in her eyes. She swiped at them in irritation. "Thanks, Marshall."

"Hey, no problem. I'm just tech guy." He hesitated. "It's just, Syd..."

She couldn't manage a word. Just urged him to continue with a nod.

"I wouldn't have even brought it up, just I wanted you to know…" He coughed, began fiddling with the wristwatch again. "I wanted you to know you were really brave. _Are_ really brave, I guess. Fighting the Covenant, doing what you had to do no matter how much it hurt. You were really brave."

Sydney let out an anguished laugh. "Oh, Marshall, no I wasn't. I was just really, really pissed off."

After a confused moment, he matched her grin.

Abruptly the abused wristwatch emitted a tinny, repeated beep. Times up. Masks back on.

Instinctively Marshall jumped, set the watch down guiltily and blustered around his office in search of miscellaneous gadgetry. "So... Yeah, oh, this is pretty stylin'." He held up a random object, a pair of faintly pink-tinted eyewear, neither sunglasses nor reading glasses but somewhere in the useless between, with a transparent computer screen plastered on the left lens to transmit tactical maps and night vision.

On impulse she gave him a hug.

-

She hadn't planned on wearing red.

Really.

It went with the earrings, she argued in her head. It went with the shoes - stylish red stilettos with heels lined with titanium in the inevitable event of having to run like hell. It went with her mood - furious. At the world. At her friends. At Sark.

"OK, not to diss the Mystery Machine or anything," Eric observed, "but this really beats the van."

A VIP party. They couldn't show up in a traceless white van. The minibar had been taken out and lined with computers; The tiny television cut into the wall was wired to receive transmissions from CIA headquarters. Sydney, the main attraction, sat in the back of the stretch limousine, preparing herself for action.

The tires scraped against the curb.

"Au revoir," she told her two handlers. French. Slip of the tongue.

"Be safe," Vaughn said quietly. Her guardian angel trying to earn back his wings.

Nodding, she waited for the valet to open the door. She stepped out gracefully, casting one glance at the tuxedo-clad men discreetly staring at her in frivolous clusters by the door. She walked with a purpose down the carpeted walkway, through the hall and into the main ballroom.

Fashionably late. They'd timed her entrance for just when the clutter was rising. She took a champagne glass and familiarized herself with the landscape.

The entrance corridor was a dark, whispering hall filled with lush rugs and understated paintings, paneled with mahogany and lit in grey tones. A hundred and one doors were passed on the route to the ballroom, each noted and memorized for their specific signs and locks, some rudimentary and some deadbolts. Polished wood was the groundwork of the décor at Maxwell Quick's estate. It lined every floor, accented every chair, and blocked every doorway. Everywhere, from the bathroom to the veranda, Sydney spotted hidden cameras, recording devices secreted beneath tables and indoor ferns. The third and fourth floor, made tantalizing by a sprawling carpeted stairwell, were strictly off limits.

All this, and she also had to mingle.

Escaping the leering of a half-dozen business associates of Quick's, Sydney spirited away into an alcove of the main room.

"I'm just lifting my champagne glass, see, not talking into a hidden mic at all," she muttered irritably to herself, raising her glass as if to take a sip.

"Could you repeat that, Mountaineer?" Vaughn, instantly, his filtered voice chirping in her ear.

"I've spotted Quick. The third and fourth levels are closed off. There's security everywhere," she murmured, forcing a smile toward a passing business mogul.

"See if you can sneak in. His office should be on the third floor, at the very end of the second hallway to the right," Eric instructed, reading off the blueprints displayed on the screen.

"I can't get up there from the inside. Not from here, anyway. I need an alternate route," she droned into her bracelet.

"Copy that, Mountaineer. Stand by." It was Vaughn again, barking at Eric to find him coordinates. "OK, listen, Syd. There's a balcony on the third floor just above the veranda. See if you can climb up."

Sighing, she passed her champagne glass to a passing waiter. Through the chittering mass of partygoers, onto the darkened, abandoned portico. It was cold; a frigid wind whipped at her carefully curled hair. Dressed to impress, no one dared the icy outdoors.

Up, up, up. Surrounded by creeper vines, narrow and lined with cast-iron railing. On the third floor.

She took off her shoes.

A wall covered in dense ivy. A tasteful, slated overhang. She could work with this.

Groaning at the necessity of it, Sydney gathered the hem of her form-fitting dress and ripped it to her thigh. Expensive or not, formal wear was in no way suitable for missions.

She moved to the wall, putting her back against the rough pillar supporting the roof of the veranda. Grasping thick handfuls of the vines covering the complete west side of the house, she climbed, her back braced against the pillar, her feet tearing through the vines as she worked her way slowly up.

Her bare feet touched down upon the cool, gritty surface of the sought-after balcony. Before her, a glass door. Locked. She withdrew a pin from her hair. Turned the handle within moments.

Plush carpet beneath her toes as she crept into the room. A bedroom, it seemed, unused and musty, satin sheets aging on the untouched bed. As Sydney passed the full-length mirror on the way to the door, she regretted it. Her appearance, ten minutes ago sleek and alluring, was no disheveled, her hands and face streaked with dirt, her shoeless feet scratched and stinging. Sighing, she drew out the hand pistol strapped to her upper leg and warily peeked out into the hallway.

"When you get in through the balcony, go left and then turn down the right corridor. At the end there's a door. Should be pretty heavily guarded. That's Quick's office," Eric's monotone read into her ear.

"Going radio silent," she whispered, and pressed the clasp twice. With a slight beep her microphone went dead, leaving Vaughn and Eric in silence.

Gripping the AMT .380 pistol against her shoulder, she crept out of the dank bedroom, sliding against the wall with the barest rustle of chiffon scraping against her ankles. The hallway was bare, bereft of tables or chairs or paintings which could hide security cameras. Sydney trod down the hall silently, stopping at a fork - right or straight.

Cautiously she inched her head around the corner, taking a swift look before ducking back. A blossoming fern beside the door, obviously hiding a camera, two guards stationed at the end of the hall, each armed with a SIG and a M-1 rifle, probably a Garand. All this taken in at a split-second glance.

No backup coming, no other way in.

She heard footsteps approaching from behind her.

-

In, out, breathing through her nose, slow and even. Her muscles seared with the strain.

Beneath her, two guards passed, rounded the corner and approached the duo guarding Quick's office. Their voices, loud and authoritative, reported on the stillness of the upper levels. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one foot off the wall and stretched to catch the opposite corner.

A suicidal, ill-conceived plan, and damned near impossible to execute. In her utter lack of concealment, Sydney had hidden on the ceiling, scrambling up with her hands and feet supporting her by pushing against opposing walls.

And now she was screwed. Dropping down would be heard by the soldiers chatting down the corridor. Her only hope was getting close enough to catch them by surprise.

Hence the navigating around a corner while clinging to the ceiling. She clamped her teeth to her lips and strenuously forced her legs to comply.

In the open, with her gun tucked into the holster on her thigh. A sitting duck. All they had to do with glance up.

Diligently she inched forward, hand-over-hand along the walls, terrified that even a single lock of hair would swing loose and alert the extremely armed guards. With a small bit of luck, the dynamic duo known as Team 6 said their adieus and scooted off. Vigilantly, she crept forward.

For the moment Sydney was out of sight of the security camera, but when she dropped down to go medieval on the guards she'd be seen. A little more smash-and-grab than she preferred, but some things had to be sacrificed.

She was preparing her attack when the door to Quick's office swung open, and Sark placed a bullet at the base of each guard's skulls. He was dressed for work, in loose black clothing and a Kevlar vest. He had a minor arsenal of weaponry clipped to his belt, and he briskly pocketed the coveted disk. Sydney went desperately still, extinguishing her breath. Three steps and she could strike from behind.

"Syd, what's going on?" Vaughn said without warning, and with a slight grunt of surprise, her hand slipped marginally.

Instantly Sark drew up his Browning, aiming it at the ceiling before his face could even register disbelief.

Her limbs wobbled with the effort as they held each other's indecisive stares.

Sydney's arms buckled from the stress. Sark caught her as she fell.

"Well, isn't this romantic," he noted sardonically, cradling her in his arms.

She half-heartedly punched him in the jaw. "Where's the disk, Sark?"

Grinning ruefully, he lowered her to her feet. "You've gotten rusty, darling."

Indignation. She aimed another punch at his head. He grasped her fist and laughed.

Caught sandwiched between Sark and the wall, she had no escape as he pinned her arms back and smothered her lips with his own.

She thrashed, squirmed against him, turned her head to avoid his kiss - which did nobody any good when he instead ran his mouth along her neck, teeth grazing skin.

"Syd?" Eric this time.

She shoved against him. Sark complied, inching back, close enough for her to feel his warm breath. Acridly Sydney wished for his arrogant smirk to replace the intense, apprehensive look he fixed on her.

"You don't owe them anything," he repeated.

She might've been made of stone.

Violent with frustration, he released his hold on her with a jerk, turning away. On impulse Sydney grabbed his arm.

She hated that look. She really did. That questioning, haughty look he gave her whenever she did anything less than expectedly heroic.

Screw it. She grabbed him and kissed him and slid her body against him when he grunted with pleasure.

Up against the wall, undignified but it didn't matter. His hands, his mouth everywhere, scratching and caressing, and Sydney just as hungry. Vaughn talking in her ear, wondering why she wasn't turning her mic back on. Sark was close enough to hear, familiar enough smirk at the absurdity of her handler obliviously hoping to chat.

She tore at his shirt, battling the enigmatic buttons, and he drew back to laugh cavalierly at her. "I knew you couldn't resist," he taunted breathlessly. "I knew you couldn't resist the danger."

It wasn't news to her. She'd known and denied it for a lifetime. "Maybe," she playfully nipped at his ear. "But what's your excuse?"

He froze. His jarring laughter disappeared and he drew away from her like she was acid. Conflict, confusion written clearly across his stoic face. He watched her with an expression of indistinct turmoil.

Sydney glanced momentarily into Quick's pilfered office. It was cluttered, elaborately furnished, with a row of surveillance screens lining the wall. The half-dozen screens viewing cameras on the third floor depicted a troop of guards running hectically toward them.

Sark followed her glance. Of course, the camera 'hidden' in the plant. A myopic 3rd-grader could have seen it faster. Though, admittedly, he'd been distracted.

A split-second stand-off, glaring at each other like a Sergio Leone tribute.

Oh, right. The disk.

In an instant their staring match was broken, and he bolted for the door, Sydney charging after him. Rounding the corner, bullets from both their guns brutalized the 5-man group of toadies blocking the hallway.

Abruptly Sark cut a corner, shots sizzling into the wall inches from his head as Sydney gave chase. Down the corridor, through the labyrinth of Maxwell Quick's fortress, leaving disaster in their wake.

Sydney sincerely hoped he knew where he was going.

All at once they arrived on the banistered walkway overlooking the packed ballroom. Callously, Sark shot down the forbidden staircase.

Belatedly Sydney re-activated the mic in her bracelet, snapping, "Sark's got the disk! He's headed toward the front door!"

Immediately Vaughn sent Eric to intercept, as he himself circled around back for perimeter backup. Sydney barely heard a word; Sark chose that moment to abandon the stairs and vault over the side, landing at a crouch on the buffet table.

Running on adrenaline, Sydney followed suit, catching the railing with her bare foot and jumping after him, tumbling less gracefully onto the floor and tackling him around the legs. Without pause Sark bloodied her nose with his knuckles.

She sprang backwards off the ground, somersaulting to her feet and kicking the Browning from his hand in the process. He rose to his feet and ground a blistering right hook into her ribcage. As she reeled back, he hit her twice more, to the shoulder and cheekbone. Sydney clocked him with the handle of her empty .380 pistol.

It wasn't about the disk anymore, wasn't about the CIA capturing an escaped terrorist, wasn't about revenge for the endless list of injuries they'd afflicted on each other. It was about winning, a barbaric passion to gain symbolic control.

Lunging forward, Sark struck her across the jaw, catching her by the hair as she fell and dragging her sideways. Letting out an uncharacteristic squeal, she nailed him in the chin with her heel and rolled to the floor. He went at her again, and pulled up short when she came up brandishing his forgotten Browning.

"On your knees," she commanded harshly, swiping at the stream of red flowing quite freely from her nose.

He tried to grin, to smirk rebelliously at her, but his bottom row of teeth had gauged into his tongue, metallic blood filling his mouth, and truth be told he knew this was inevitable.

The ball was in her court now.

Bad metaphor, considering.

"On your knees, now!" she shouted, wavering. Present a strong front even if you're turned to ashes.

Nearly snarling with frustration, he withdrew the disk from his jacket and held it aloft. "Come and get it."

She rolled her eyes. No, really. "Grow up and toss it to me, Sark."

Quick's guards were creeping down the staircase. Time was up.

"Sydney!" A thick, female voice. Definitely (well, hopefully) not her handler.

Her gaze flickered to the emptying, chaotic ballroom. There, by the door leading to the library. Dressed in gold and smiling. Allison.

A procession of emotions, disbelief, terror, rage, dismay and a smattering of self-loathing, displayed in Sydney's familiar eyes as Sark watched, tensed. This was why she was here, of course. Who would actually hire Allison for surveillance? She had the stealth of a break-dancing mountain goat.

Sark could have slapped himself for causing the look of blinding confliction she turned on him. Or, more accurately, for the bewildering urge he had to hug her. Yes, hug her.

Dear god, he was becoming Michael Vaughn.

Without another word Sydney turned and sprinted toward Allison, who had enough sense to run like hell. Sark replaced the disk in his jacket and headed to the front door. Just for a laugh he slammed the oncoming Eric Weiss headfirst into the door jam on his way out the door.


	15. Tailspin

Part 15 : Tailspin  
-

She dodged through the onslaught of terrified socialites, her bare feet slapping against the soft carpet as she sped through the Italian-furnished labyrinth. Always, weaving back and forth, a flash of gold silk goading her on. She didn't waste her bullets; the Browning, with a half-used 12-shot clip, was held ready until she could find a clear mark.

One of Quick's errant guards, big as a house and twice as costly, grabbed Sydney from behind and slammed her against the wall. Without pause she lowered her stance, jerked his arm up, and flipped him over her shoulder. As he scrambled to his feet she swung with her knee. His neck snapped and she sprinted past as he fell.

Screaming, all around her, men calling for someone to stop her, none brave enough to approach. Sydney drew up, turning her eyes in a circle. Allison had disappeared.

"Vaughn, Eric - did you get Sark?" she demanded breathlessly into her bracelet, barreling through the crowd, out onto the veranda. She nearly tripped over her previously discarded shoes.

Silence, in the icy breeze and over the comm link. "Eric, do you copy?" she said desperately.

Blackness - dull, empty shapes in the night, trees and bushes and filtered yellow light glowing sparsely from the tasteful, insufficient lamps lining the main pathway into the park.

Silence. Static. It was all she ever heard anymore.

She stepped off the portico, into the salient grass. It tangled between her toes, cool and damp and sharp. Somewhere was Allison, concealed behind the trees, the criss-crossing shadows, somewhere. The Browning up, out, Sydney trod noiselessly down the lawn, darting in and out of deep shadows.

"Did you get Sark?" Simultaneously, in her ear and to her right. Vaughn, in the echoing blackness illuminated by the white moon, approached carelessly, his firearm held at ease, oblivious to the threat.

Before Sydney could call out Allison was on him, slipping from the darkness. A single axe kick to his stomach and he went down. Sydney could almost hear the stitches below his ribcage snapping.

Allison grabbed his arms, twisted; she snatched his gun as it fell from his hand. She pinned him against her and pressed the barrel to his throat. "Stay there," she commanded as Sydney stepped forward.

Hand-to-hand, Sydney could beat her blind-folded.

"Me and Mikey, here, are going for a little trip. Walk away, Syd. Just walk away," she instructed, taking a cautious step back. With no choice, Vaughn moved with her.

Sydney lifted Sark's stolen Browning.

Eyes betraying her fear, Allison halted. "Yeah, right." Poker face. Act indifferent. "Yeah, right. You're going to let Vaughn die just so you can waver between killing me? Do you really think you can shoot me? I know you, Syd. I was your best friend for months."

Allison could be killed. It was a simple fact she'd denied for two years. Rambaldi's accelerated healing couldn't cure a stilled heartbeat.

"You're too noble for vengeance. You can't see past Francie's face and you know it,"

Another step back. Sydney followed steadily.

Allison smiled, smug. Vaughn's breathing came in painful, sporadic bursts. "You can't kill me, Syd. You know it and I know it. So me and Vaughn are going -"

A perfect shot, a bulls-eye through her hand, and Allison dropped the gun with a squeal. Vaughn tumbled to the ground, clutching at his stomach.

Sydney squeezed the trigger twice more, both kneecaps, Allison collapsed onto the brick avenue.

"Francie didn't know me," she explained calmly, another shot into her one good arm. Crippled.

"You can't -" Allison began.

A fifth and final shot, a single bullet punching through the larynx, an agonizing death.

Sydney crouched to check Allison Doren's dissipated pulse. Gone. Remorseless.

Mechanically she knelt beside Vaughn. His eyes were wide, staring at her with sympathy, disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak.

He choked, and coughed blood onto her dress.

Red. A good investment in her line of work.

-

With irritation she swatted away the med student taping up the torn bruise along her jaw line. Her patience was through.

Luckily, her gun had been confiscated at the door.

"Is that all?" she said crisply to Dixon, who watched her thoughtfully from across the tiny room.

Without a word he nodded, and Sydney bolted, charging down the empty hallway toward the bank of elevators. Six floors of soft jazz blaring at her through clipped speakers did nothing to improve her mood.

She'd expected it, of course, but the scene still hammered a blow to her heart. Lauren, curled in an armchair. Tears running down her face, mascara smudged and her hair disheveled from nervous, raking fingers. Eric seated silently beside her, offering whatever stunted comfort he could, an icepack held to the throbbing black bruise on his forehead. They looked up when she entered. This was a private waiting room.

"Hey," Sydney muttered.

"He's asleep right now," Lauren said lifelessly. She held a hand over her eyes. "The doctors found a tear in the weakened tissue. They stopped the bleeding but he's very weak. He's been asking for you."

By instinct Sydney went to Eric's side, checking his bruise and smoothing back his hair. She couldn't face Lauren right now. She had nothing to say to Vaughn.

"Syd." Eric caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. "He's been asking for you,"he told her quietly.

Her fault. Indirectly. She owed him that much.

Her unsteady hand was reaching for the doorknob when Lauren stopped her.

"Is it true?"

Turn, turn, face your enemy.

"Did you really kill Allison Doren?"

"Yes."

Cautious silence. Sydney unapologetic.

"I'm glad," said Lauren.

Eric was watching. It was his chosen job. He smiled at Sydney before she walked out of the room.

-

She blew cool air, feather-light, against his face. She took his hand and held it. Asleep, his tense muscles relaxed.

And she watched him, silently, until he awoke to the sound of them breathing in sync, his heavy and labored, hers light and ineffectual. He opened his eyes and managed a smile when he saw her.

Wires and tubes and monitors cluttered the space around him. She leaned forward, inches apart, and allowed a grin as she drew his hair off his forehead. The same comforting gesture she now reserved for Eric.

"For two years," Vaughn told her. His voice was tired, gravel. "For two years I've gone to sleep and dreamed of you being there when I woke up."

He still loved her. Her father loved her, Dixon loved her, Marshall and everyone else from her old life. It was mutual, but it had grown indistinct. It felt like a high school reunion every time she went to work in the morning.

"I'm here," she assured him, and brushed her fingers through his hair until he drifted back to sleep.

"I'm so sorry about Francie," he whispered before his eyes closed.

-

He grasped her hand wherever they went nowadays. It was a vague encouragement, a reminder that he was backing her up when lying became too severe a discomfort. Office gossip was a bitch, sure, but he could deal. There were worse things than being tagged as Sydney Bristow's latest beau.

It came as a surprise, though, when Jack approached and she clamped down on his hand, refusing to let go. Her expression left no room for discussion.

"Sydney," Jack began, staring coolly at Eric, "may I have a moment?"

"Sure, Dad. What's up?"

He attempted escape, but her lock grip assured Eric that, if not him, his arm, at least, was staying.

Eric half-expected Jack to ask if he'd just been _Punk'd_.

"It's a matter of some importance," he told his daughter.

"I tell Eric everything, anyway, Dad. He might as well hear it first-hand," Sydney answered with false sweetness.

Tense. Sydney's nails dug into his palm. Only then did Eric realize she was on the brink and falling fast.

"Dixon sent a team after Sark. They lost him in Grant Park. He could be anywhere by now." Stalling. Jack wanted Eric gone. Off the side of a bridge, perhaps.

"Spit it out, Dad. Eric knows everything I do," she explained wearily.

A beat, Jack processing, looking blankly at the two friends.

Defeat. He was no match for Sydney's stubbornness.

"Your mother and I have been working together to recover your missing memories."

Blood draining from her face at an alarming rate. The intense throbbing in Eric's skull intensified. He knew that expression.

_Oh, you poor fool_, Sydney thought.

"She wants to see you. We had a meeting scheduled soon. She misses you, sweetheart." His voice softened into parent-mode, touched her shoulder, offered support.

Screw it.

"I can't." Abrupt, determined. "Sorry, Dad. I can't see her. I can't – no." Tugging discreetly at Eric's hand, her link to sanity.

"I know, with everything that's happened, you justifiably feeling scared. But she loves you, Sydney," Jack pleaded. "You killed the woman who looked like Francie tonight, I understand. Your mother made the mistake of betraying you once. But she realizes now that you're more important than anything else in this world. She only wants you to be happy."

"She has an endgame, Dad. She always does." She sounded so sure. "And Allison Doren was _nothing_ like Francie."

Eric pulled her away down the hall. Jack watched them go.

-

He could make her laugh. It was his special talent, his charm, his greatest asset.

He told her a story from college, when he got a black eye playing hockey with Vaughn and later got cussed out by his sister for ruining her wedding pictures with his unsightly wound. It wasn't terribly funny, told with indignant enthusiasm, something to remind her how to laugh.

"You honestly don't regret killing Allison Doren, do you?"

She shook her head, letting out the last of her giggles. "She wasn't Francie. She never was. I'd do it again if I could."

Eric nodded in slow understanding, the mood held meticulously happy for fear of everything crashing down. He said finally, "You really did change, didn't you? You really aren't the same Syd as before."

"Nope." A slight shrug. The moment of truth. The tension nearly choking her, but she'd play it out to the end.

Another pause.

"I still love you, though," he pointed out.

"I know."

"I know you know."

He took up the remote control and switched on the TV.

She wasn't all sunshine and roses. He could accept that.

-

It was dim morning when she broke into consciousness, the still living room shadowed and warm, lit by the glow of the muted television, filled with the sound of Eric's muted snores. She was tired, comfortable, and completely alert to the feeling of being watched.

Sydney slid slowly out from beneath Eric's arm, which he'd slung casually around her shoulders before they fell asleep. He stirred, and coughed, and remained dead to the world as she smoothed a quilt over his legs. Against training she ignored the Beretta placed beneath a stack of photo albums in the third drawer in the coat closet. She cracked open the front door and crept outside.

He was there, crouching in the shrubbery, his old haunt where he'd whiled away the hours by familiarizing himself with every aspect of Sydney's home life.

"Is it something about me, or do you just like skulking?" she called out.

He stood, and walked toward her. Outdoors, dressed casually in loose clothes and an unzipped jacket, he looked younger, less feral, ill at ease but faking it well. He smiled at her, a fraction away from a smirk, and she wondered if this was Julian setting aside his alias, terrified and confident.

"It's most definitely you," Sark answered lightly, stopping closer to her than strictly necessary.

"I thought this was a gated community," she said wryly.

"Oh, Sydney. Walls can't keep me out."

He'd come here for a reason, and she was almost expected to throw a wrench in his plans. It was their routine - Sark the aggressor, Sydney the champion.

She took a step back.

He was surprised, for an eternal instant, but he hid it quickly and Sydney agreed to not notice. He shrugged his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. The usual stance, the usual dialogue, both playing their roles but it wasn't quite working.

"So. Tell me, darling, how are you going to make me pay for my little trick tonight?" He was smiling, because he had to.

"Nothing," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

"What do you have to do to me to make us even again?" he asked. None of the subtlety, the infuriating games Sark always played.

She let out a despicable laugh. "What does it matter if we're even or not? It doesn't make it any better."

She was changing the rules. Finally, one of them had the courage to.

"Being even doesn't help _anyone_, Julian. All it does is cause more pain. Don't you get it? Killing your father, using Allison to distract me, none of it is right just because it's justified!"

He searched for a quip, a barb to stop her in her tracks, to make her despise him again instead of the searing look of pleading she held in her eyes.

"I know that, Sydney," he said softly. "But it's the wicked lives we lead."

The fight went out of her. Drained out of her and all that was left was tortured.

A burst of wind, kicking leaves around their ankles. It was winter fading to spring, cold and dry. She looked away.

"23 feet, 9 inches. Gilded mahogany, rotting slightly around the left door handle," he recited quietly. "12 feet, 2 inches wide. An abandoned spider web in the upper left corner."

A tired, flickering grin. "Chalk marble, early afternoon. Winter. Taken in '98 or '99. A shadow, probably the photographer, in the right hand corner," she finished.

The church de la Seul. The photograph pinned to the colorless wall of Ockley's lab.

"Thank you," Sark said.

She met his eyes.

"Is there anywhere else I should go for my well-being?" he asked casually.

Unexpected, indecisive. She hesitated before answering.

"After Mom left, when I was younger, Dad always took one week off just before school started in the fall. He'd take me all over the country, just when all the other tourists were going home," she explained. "There's this little stretch of beach in Sarasota, Florida. Siesta Key. Right between the condos and the hotels."

He listened patiently; Almost smiled when he fixed his gaze on her lips and her words faltered slightly.

"In the morning, when it's raining. There isn't another human around for miles." She spoke in a listless monotone, picking through the details remembered by a 12-year-old Sydney. "Everything looks grey. The sky, the sand, the water." She shrugged, feeling faintly silly. "You'll understand when you see it."

Sark was close and leaning closer. She was caught between fleeing into the house or meeting him halfway.

He kissed her nose.

"It's your life, Sydney," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Not theirs."

She was still stiff with shock, chocolate brown eyes wide and staring, when he stepped back and jammed his hands in his pockets. So casual, so - _normal_. Sark had seen her torn apart so often and so completely that he thought it only fair to show her a glimpse of whom he might've been. Could still maybe be.

"I'll be back later for my car," he added. Assured her it wasn't goodbye.

Shaken, but not stirred, Sydney nodded. She watched in subdued amazement as he strolled indifferently down the driveway, onto the sidewalk. He gave a vague wave without glancing back and he disappeared down the street.

Arrogant bastard.

She was involuntarily smiling when she closed the door and locked it.


	16. Red Tide

**-  
Part 16 : Red Tide  
-**

He couldn't tell if she was smiling or cringing. She was quieter today, waking him 20 minutes late for work with breakfast laid out on the table and a freshly-ironed suit (black, she insisted; navy clashed with his hair) hanging on the hook on the bathroom door.

"You had a concussion," she explained shortly. "You needed the sleep."

She was weary. She was up to something. She'd burnt the waffles and it was still the best damn thing he'd ever tasted.

"You're late," Dixon accused when they slid into the conference room, as inconspicuously as a hyena raiding party.

While Eric was in the process of swallowing his necktie, Sydney gave the boss a hard look. A look she hadn't given him since the old days back at SD-6. Shut up and deal with it.

Dixon laughed. He'd missed her desperately.

There was an empty seat by Lauren. She looked tired, and terrified. Sydney gave her shoulder an unexpected squeeze as she passed.

"As we all know, last night was a set-back for us. Sark got away with the disk, and Vaughn was put back in the hospital," Dixon said briskly. "Though the elimination of Allison Doren was a major relief to the NSC as well as everyone in this office,"

She looked down at the crisp report arranged in front of her. No one but Eric noticed when she picked up her pen and began scribing meaningless doodles.

"We have very few leads as to Sark's whereabouts. We're basically just shooting the dark. We're sending teams out everywhere, Berlin, Dublin, Cairns - all the likely suspects," Dixon explained, and Marshall nudged a teetering stack of files toward Sydney. "I figured we'd let you pick this time. The odds are just as good anywhere. Might as well go someplace scenic for once."

Nodding wordlessly, Sydney reached for the nearest file and glanced through it almost absently.

Soon it became impossible to ignore. Jack picked up on it first, watched his daughter with worried scrutiny, and alerted Dixon with a short cough. Something was wrong. Sydney was nervous.

They observed her in silent bewilderment, Eric included, until she dropped the files with a snap.

"I can't do this," she announced, eyes fixed solidly on the tabletop.

"You don't have to go on an op this soon," Jack consoled instantly. Parental instincts on red alert.

"No," she contradicted. "Not the ops. This job. I can't do this anymore. I have to get away."

She'd woken up that morning and Sark's echoing words had been there to greet her. It was her life. She was taking it back. "I'm requesting extended leave."

"Now is not a good time, Sydney," Dixon said quietly.

"It's never a good time."

"But especially so now," he insisted. Marshall, Lauren and Eric kept quiet. Jack stood by like a panther in the grass. Neutral, though he'd take his daughter's side by faculty.

"Sark will only run farther the longer we wait. We have to find him before he can decrypt the disk," Dixon said firmly. "The man tortured you for two months, Sydney. I won't let him escape this time. He must be brought to justice."

She choked out a bitter laugh. "Bringing justice to everyone who ever hurt me would entail going to war with half of western civilization. But thanks."

"You can't leave now! You're our top field agent; You were gone for two years and we _still_ hadn't found a suitable replacement."

"Hey, now!" Eric said indignantly.

Dixon slapped the glass tabletop with frustration. "Damnit, two years, Sydney! What about your memories? What about that scar on your stomach? What about revenge?"

"Don't talk to me about revenge," Sydney interrupted. Her voice was calm, level, smooth as shattered glass. She got it now. "Blood won't cure my wounds, Dixon. Revenge won't ever make me whole again. I want out."

Words failed. Beliefs crumbled. Shit happens. He'd do anything to make her stay. "Jack?"

At the end of the table, Jack looked up. He'd been memorizing the floor, it seemed, and now he chose his side carefully. "Kidnapped, tortured, and with no memory of the last two years of her life," he observed. "Yes, Marcus, I believe my daughter deserves a break."

Nothing to add. Lauren unsure, Eric hopeful, Marshall worried. Jack proud and saddened. Dixon full of remorse. Sydney just looking for a lifeline.

"Sydney, you can't give up," Dixon pleaded.

Eric felt Sydney compulsively grab hold of his hand.

"I'm not," she murmured. "I'm cutting my losses."

Reality came crashing against Dixon like a slap to the face. For five years he'd treated her like the 19-year-old sandstorm he'd met so long ago, bright and smiling and untainted. He'd failed to see the savage damage wracked upon her by those closest to her. He had loved, worried over and was unfair to her, expecting nothing less than immortality. She'd given more than she could spare and he never could repay her.

"Permission granted," he said heavily, and scratched his signature on the permission form hardly glancing at it. It felt like signing a death sentence, though he couldn't tell whose.

"But you can't leave." Quiet, squeaking, Marshall's voice from across the table. "You just came back."

Lauren, her two cents said in a soothing monotone. "At least wait until Michael is out of the hospital. He can help take on your workload. Besides, he - he'd want to say goodbye."

She shook her head firmly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all of you. You'll never know how much you mean to me." A slight pause. "I don't expect you to understand," she added, then snatched the permission form off the table. Sydney walked out before another word could be said.

-

Hands that could disable a security mainframe in 12.9 seconds fumbled to move pens, two picture frames and a novelty mug into the standard-issue filing box. She could feel them watching, circling, tag-teaming coffee runs so as not to miss the heart-wrenching goodbye speech.

There wasn't going to be any speech, no goodbye, no return. For once, she'd play the coward.

"So, where to? Vegas? New Jersey? Ooh, the Vatican?"

She lifted her eyes, surprised, and found Eric leaning against her emptied desk, smiling like the sun was coming for tea. Sydney had locked that part out of her mind. Missing him would be too severe to foresee.

So she shrugged, and placed her miniature snow globe into the box. "I don't know. England, maybe. Figure I'd try out my literature degree."

"Why would I want to go to England? Rain, scones, and something called Bangers and Mash, but without any kind of irony? I'm more of a waffle man, anyway." He said it lightly, hands in his pockets, perhaps hoping to slide it past her.

She froze. "Eric - you can't come with me."

"Sure I can."

"But you belong here! This is your life, Eric. You - I mean, what about Vaughn, your job, everything? I have to get away from all this, spying and stealing and running for my life. It's too hard."

"Hey, I deserve a break, too. Seriously, without you this office is like a graveyard minus the humorous tomb-robbing possibilities."

"You've worked so hard to get where you are now. I can't let you drop it all because of me." She watched him incredulously. After years of experience, Sydney had naturally assumed she would lose everything.

Without warning he sobered, looked her in the eye and spoke with crystal clarity. "Syd, I may not know you as well as I'd like, but I still need you in my life."

That settled it. After a wavering moment, she clamped the lid down onto the box and shoved it against his chest. Grinning, he tucked it to his side. It was light, the cardboard heavier than anything inside.

Letting out a shuddering breath, she took hold of his free arm and allowed a brilliant smile. "So what's this about a beach house in Maui?" she asked.

From across the floor, Jack watched as his daughter headed to the elevator for the final time, arm-in-arm with Eric Weiss, laughing with infectious hope. There would be no speech, no goodbye. She was brave enough to take the cowardly way out.

-

Fitting, that they chose to meet at the mute warehouse that had so often hid their daughter and her handler those ancient years ago. She, of course, was late. Like daughter, like mother.

"Traffic," she explained, and it sounded false in the air. Nothing so innocent should ever come from her mouth.

"I know we were scheduled to meet tomorrow, but it was urgent," Jack said flatly. Love or hate her, he kept his tone emotionless.

"Has she remembered something?"

Hook, line, and sinker.

"No. She's moving on."

Together they stepped into the yellow-washed light. She looked tired, beautiful, dangerous and soothing. A quick kiss but she had no patience for him now. Sydney came before all else.

"How so? And with whom?" Irina demanded, suspicious. Jack almost laughed.

"She's leaving the CIA. Eric Weiss."

"_Weiss?_ Vaughn's friend Weiss?"

"Not yet. But soon," he assured.

A processing, panicked look came to her eyes. Irina sat carefully on one of the unpolished folding chairs placed and forgotten by Michael Vaughn.

"Moving on... how?" she said precisely.

"She's walking away. She's getting out." He was smiling, relieved. A rarity.

"What about the Covenant? How can she just walk away without a fight?" Irina argued.

"I don't know, but I am beyond relieved that she is. Sydney's getting a second chance at what she always wanted."

Irina let out a short, scoffing laugh. "A house in the suburbs? A teacher's salary? Do you really think she'll be happy living that life? You've read the Notebook, Jack. You know she's destined for so much more than that."

Choosing his words carefully, Jack took a seat beside her. "It doesn't matter, Laura. It doesn't matter what she's destined to be, or what she's capable of. She wants normalcy."

"But she isn't normal, Jack! Even without Rambaldi, you knew that! Sydney wasn't born to raise kids in New Jersey with a teddy bear like Eric Weiss!"

"Do you really think she'd be happier with your little bloodhound? As the scourge of espionage, the queen of deception? Do you think she'll be any happier following your footsteps?" Jack growled. "Yes, Laura, I've read the Notebook. Rambaldi always said there was a choice. At least this way she'll be safe."

"She'll never be safe, Jack."

Momentarily they lapsed into silence, both contemplating the fate of their daughter. Sydney was all they had, the both of them, and both had separate views on her destiny. Jack was desperate for her to escape, and Irina would stop at nothing to ensure she didn't. There was deception in the room, heavy in the air. They both held secrets close to their heart.

"When she returned," Jack said slowly, "from her time in the custody of Sark - her nails were painted black." Irina's eyes darted up to meet his, temporary apprehension masked instantly. "It's not Sydney's normal color," he observed. "She wasn't being tortured, was she? She was running a mission. But for who, I wonder?"

After a slight, gathering hesitation, Irina said calmly, "Why don't you ask her?"

"There's no need. You already know," he said steadily. "Tell me what you're hiding, Laura."

"I don't know where Sydney was. I haven't seen her in almost 3 years now."

"I'll believe that," Jack admitted. "But you are hiding something. After Sydney's safely settled somewhere far away, I fully intend to find out what."

Irina leaned back in her chair, her expression a confusing mixture of smugness, heartbreak, and ultimately resignation. "I'm getting old, Jack," she explained. "I've spent my entire life working to ensure Rambaldi's prophesy plays out to the end." A quiet, wistful tone. "I've given up everything. My child. My husband." She smiled painfully. "It's difficult, you know, being the villain. You have the hurt the people you love most, and they must hate you for it."

Jack barely had time to jerk backwards as she stood. She fluidly drew a straight blade from her sleeve and sunk it between his ribcage.

"Sydney is everything to me, Jack. Just as you were everything to me. I cannot let her walk away from her destiny. I'm her mother." She kissed him through the blood surging up his throat. "I'm willing to sacrifice everything for her."

Irina didn't bother to remove the knife from his chest. Her tears fell freely as she stepped over his body on her way out of the warehouse.

-

Her laughter rang through the house, light, shining laughter that hadn't sounded in years. There were thousands of odd little knick-knacks, hidden in closets and beneath beds, everywhere around the rented house, Eric observed, that fell into the category of "Sentimental Crap That Sydney Can't Live Without". She was giggling so hard, and for so long, and Eric was so contented to be watching her happiness, that nearly nothing got packed in the entire afternoon's work.

They decided on furniture first, lamps and vases and pillows, filling padded boxes and marking them unintelligibly, because they were content for the first time in eternity and they didn't know shit about moving. They pushed the question of their ultimate destination into the back of their minds. It didn't matter, so long as it was far, far away from Los Angeles.

"How about New Zealand? I like sheep!" Eric called out, and down the hallway Sydney snorted with laughter.

"I don't think you'd cut it as a Kiwi," she answered, unplugging a ceramic lamp from an end table and carrying it into the living room.

"Rio? I hear they make great tacos."

The phone rang, loud and shrill and demanding. Switching the lamp to one arm, Sydney answered it while fighting giggles.

Eric was in the living room, covering cardboard boxes in superfluous masking tape. He heard the crash first, the antique lamp tumbling to the wooden floor. He came running when she let out a shrieking sob.

-

Clear water ran through his colorless, blunt hair, down his face and along his shoulders, dripping onto the speckled white sand. Early morning and he was awake, alert, watching and waiting. He walked aimlessly along the rain-washed beach, the grey haze stark against his habitual black clothing. He looked and he saw nothing.

That, he guessed, was exactly what Sydney had instructed.

A spiritual sight, to be sure, raging and peaceful at the same time. Sark watched the lonely sunrise, kicking at the sopping sand as he wandered. There the world was grey, a humid, misting rain with failing morning sunshine piercing through the thin rain clouds. He was soaked to the bone, his obscenely expensive overcoat drenched and unbearably heavy.

Sark held out his hand, catching raindrops in his palm, appraising the landscape with a sense of discovery. Past the shore and out to sea, the white sun was rising, hidden by clouds the color of concrete, and somewhere in the distance a seagull gave an errant screech. It wasn't beautiful, or breathtaking, or anything that gave him false hope for humanity. It was a simple truth that the rain would continue for the rest of the morning, but eventually the sun would always win out. Eventually the clouds would fade.

He stared at the rippling water pooling in his cupped hand. He wouldn't change for her, she couldn't make him a better man, but he could catch her when she fell.

That made them even.


	17. Gingersnap

**-  
Part 17 : Gingersnap  
-  
**

"_What people never understand is that my father loved me. Yeah - past tense. I'm still getting used to that._

_  
I have a lot of memories of my dad. Vague ones, distinct ones, good ones and a many, many bad ones. From my 6th birthday right up until two days ago, I can remember every single hug, every conversation, every argument we ever shared._

_  
Part of that is his fault. I'm programmed to forget until I need to remember._

_  
He was a good man and a bad father. The first lesson he taught me is that the best things in life breed sacrifice."_

_  
_-

He called Dixon, quickly demanding details the director didn't have.

Sydney sat behind the wheel, tearing through red lights like they were Yield signs.

"They'll meet us there," he said softly, putting away the cell phone.

She didn't bother to answer. Her eyes were dry. At the next intersection, she braked on a yellow light.

"We're too late anyway," she whispered.

Strapped in the passenger seat of Sark's pirated Mercedes, Eric desperately wished she would cry, beat her fists against the dashboard and scream for her father. But she wouldn't, and she didn't. Her eyes took on the eerie look of granite he'd witnessed that static night when she'd told them she had killed Allison Doren.

Blasphemy. No one gets a second chance.

-

They kept her carefully away, took turns standing beside her as she looked out into the clouded ocean. The ambulance came in silence, its siren mute, angry red lights and windshield wipers scraping across slick glass.

They kept her away from Jack, away from the corpse eagled across the cement floor, away from the chaos of a crime scene. Away from the knife removed from the victim's chest and hastily placed in a ziplock bag.

Dixon said something but she wasn't sure what. His coat was suddenly around her shoulders but she didn't know how. Eric was arguing with an NSC agent but she couldn't see why.

Her father was dead. It could happen to anybody, really.

Eric approached and she wanted to tell him "_Run_" in one and a dozen different languages. She wanted to scream the name of Jack Bristow's murderer but she wouldn't. Revenge is all there is when you have nothing.

A heavy shape under a white sheet being carted into the ambulance bay. Eric wished she would cry.

"He's gone," she whispered.

"I'm here, Syd," he told her. "I'm always here."

"I know,"

The paramedics closed the metal doors.

"But that's not enough," she said. Her hand fell empty to her side.

-

_"It was December 24th. I decided to stay awake until midnight to see if I could catch Santa before he left and maybe wrangle an extra present or two. I was 7 years old, and inquisitive as hell. I knew St. Nick didn't actually exist. I knew it was my Dad, placing a couple colored boxes under the sparsely decorated tree, almost as an after-thought, before he retreated to his study to get some work done before he - well, before he went to work. I knew all this, but I had to see it with my own eyes. Hard proof, he always told me. Never act out of passion._

_  
I crawled out of bed, down the corridor - vaulted low over the railing on the staircase because the first four steps creaked. Barefoot, because slippers could get caught on nails and leave a trace of soft pink fuzz._

_  
Dad wasn't there. The den was lit by the polluted white glow of the Christmas lights sparking off the red ornaments. The lamp by the desk was off, papers scattered across the tabletop. Dad wasn't there, but he had been, and would be_ _soon._

_  
Warring instincts told me to run and to stay. The latter won out, and I climbed into the leather-bound desk chair. I picked up the 9mm. Beretta placed by his silver pen._

_  
I disassembled it quickly, first the barrel, then the safety, then the chamber and trigger guard until there was only a skeleton._

_  
Then I put it back together again._

_  
Dad was standing in the doorway. I think he was smiling."_

-

It was surprising, how many people showed up. Most of them, she guessed, just wanted to be sure he was really dead.

Vaughn was there, clutching his side and out of breath. She avoided him like the plague. She'd loved him, once, but she'd hurt him, too. The victims of her misery rarely lived.

By default she was expected to speak. There was no priest; Jack hadn't had the time for religion. There were no friends. Arvin Sloane had been the closest he'd had to a pal.

So she separated the Secret words and the Speaking words - everything she'd like to say packaged and pushed into the back of her mind, leaving a pastel void of suitably impersonal adjectives she could use to describe an unapproachable man she'd loved without meaning to.

Sydney stood at the foot of the open grave. Watched with emotionless eyes as the pallbearers - Dixon, Marshall, Weiss, a few others she recognized and didn't care about - lowered the coffin into the crumbling ground.

They waited with a sickening eagerness for what she would say. Her father brutally murdered, the fingerprints on the weapon leading to the mother that had disappeared nearly 3 years ago. It held the queasy appeal of a car wreck.

She opened her mouth and recited.

-

_"I hated my dad for the longest time. And for a while, I think, he hated me too._

_  
The worst part was that we loved each other so damned much."_

-

She stooped and gathered a handful of loose earth. Without blinking she cast it onto the glossy wooden coffin.

"Goodbye, Dad," she said carefully.

Five days, a quick procession of loose threads and dead ends. No one quite knew what to think. They looked in his daughter's eyes and saw violence. Against all hope, she was what her parents had made her.

It was a clear day, dry January, in a quiet graveyard littered with yellow leaves. The service over, mourners stepped forward to offer condolences, and they fell on deaf ears. Julia Thorne didn't waste tears for the dead.

Sydney accepted hugs, tears, kisses with a laconic grace she couldn't bother to hide. When Vaughn stepped forward, she merely shook her head and continued on.

Class dismissed.

Eric cautiously walked her through the graveyard, moving slowly between headstones. He grasped her hand while he still had the chance.

She stopped at the gates, staring out at the nearly empty parking lot.

"I'm so sorry, Eric," she said, and meant it.

"Don't be," he replied quickly. He hesitated, staring at her fingers tangled within his. "It was her, wasn't it? She came back."

Sydney nodded slowly, gazing through the black metal gates spanning before her. "I always knew she would."

One breath, two, short, frustrated gasps hissing through his teeth. "Let me come with you," he begged.

She let out an involuntary laugh. "Where I'm going, nobody can follow."

And Sark would be there to meet her.

Another rending pause. "I wish it was me," Eric confessed, staring down into her face. "I know - I know we can't choose who we love, but God, I wish it could have been me."

"It would have been," she answered with conviction.

Would haves and should haves. Her life was full of them.

Acute agony, worsened when she leaned upward and kissed him, lightly, on the corner of his mouth. This was what she should have had, warmth and sunlight and freedom to be afraid. Homage to what should have been and never was.

"He'd better take good care of you," Eric whispered bitterly.

A half-smile, a hug, and she stepped away. He watched her walk calmly down the path, through the gates, up to the Mercedes that had disappeared from their garage two days ago. She slid into the passenger seat and, for an instant, Eric met his eyes - cold, emotionless blue from behind the steering wheel. Sark nodded to him, once, acknowledging a battle well fought. Sark got the girl while Eric got the memories. Unfair to all involved.

-

'_Whither is God, I shall tell. We have killed him - you and I. All of us are murderers... God is dead.'_

-

They didn't speak until he pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel, a flat pink building with a rotting pool built half a mile off the highway heading north.

"There's no going back, Sydney," he said as he switched off the engine.

"That's the point, Sark," she answered, and climbed out of the car.

Waiting inside the cool, smoke-scented motel room was a small arsenal of op tech - weapons, surveillance gear, and a neat suitcase filled with snug black clothing. She didn't bother considering how Sark knew her correct size. Less than a week ago she'd been packing to move to Honolulu. Today she was leaving everything behind.

"Irina killed your father for a reason," he continued, coolly, efficiently. He leaned against the plaster wall, hands in his pockets, while Sydney stood distractingly near, her arms crossed over her chest and her jaw clenched. "I'm ready and willing to devote any and all resources to taking her down, but we must be cautious."

"100 million," she said.

"Pardon?"

"100 million. I have enough to worry about without you offering me charity out of the goodness of your heart."

Unexpected, he grinned. "How nice of you. You'll give me 12 percent of my stolen inheritance if I help you inflict vigilante justice on your murdering mother." A beat. "I love America."

She snorted with indifference. "Who said anything about your inheritance? It's Sloane's money. He left me a little gift in his will. So what if I forged a couple zeros on the end? It's not like he'll be using it for his retirement."

He laughed delightedly. "You do realize that you stole a large sum of money that was to go to children's charities?" Sark was incredulously. Standing before him was, quite possibly, the woman of his dreams.

She shrugged. "It's blood money, they wouldn't want it. Beside, since when did you become moral?"

"I didn't," he answered wryly, "you became a manipulative shrew."

Ruby lips quirked into an amused smile, thinly hiding a wall of blackened grief. "So," she said briskly, "the hardest part will be finding her. She's got a disappearing act that would piss of Houdini. I'm guessing you must have some idea -"

"That can wait," Sark interrupted.

"For what?" she snapped.

He looked her steadily in the eye, harsh and unwavering. "Your father is dead, Sydney," he stated.

She took a step back. "Thanks for the heads up, Sark. I know."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, sliding a hand behind her head.

He kissed her with a foreign tenderness, soft, comforting and motiveless. An obscure sort of challenge.

In immediate response she slammed him against the wall.

She bit, scratched, the same sort of primal heresy that drew them together like moths to flame. This time, he grabbed hold of her wrists when she dragged her nails across his chest.

"Your father is dead," he repeated, and kissed her again with the same maddening sweetness.

"Stop it!" Sydney hissed, rearing back.

"You can still feel it," he insisted, holding her fast. "You're not like me, Sydney. So I beg of you don't try."

She tried to protest, tried to hide, but he stared at her with sorrow in his eyes until she broke.

Her face cracked, her eyes clouded. Before she could begin fighting it Sark pulled her against him into a consoling embrace. Her shattered tears fell onto his shoulder and he comforted her, something he had little practice with in a lifetime of wreaking devastation.

"I didn't know," she whispered in his ear. "I'm so sorry, Julian. If I'd known I never would have - I never meant to -"

He understood without having to ask.

"I never knew Andrian Lazarey," he soothed. "He was nothing to me."

She buried her face into the collar of his jacket. He wrapped his arms around her waist in silence.

When her tears subsided he lifted her onto the creaking, tattered bed, and took advantage of her vulnerability without remorse. Love or hate him, he was a hired killer; He gave nothing for nothing.

As Sark's mouth left hers, traveled down her neck, her stomach, her thighs, Sydney cried the very last of her tears. She was a millions miles from happiness, but the journey alone was worth fighting for.


	18. Shadow Rising Backwards

-  
**Part 18 : Shadow Rising Backwards**  
-

He glanced up from the tepid omelet congealing on a chipped porcelain plate as she slid into the booth opposite him.  
  
"Please tell me you're not going to eat that," she accused.  
  
"I got here early,"he explained. "The waitress thought I'd been stood up. The average southern roadside cafe, it seems, lives up to its stereotype."  
  
"Yeah. But Kentucky? Not actually all that friendly."  
  
Sark watched her from behind impenetrable sunglasses. She was nervous, or uneasy at least, eager to get down to business but desperate to avoid the subject.  
  
"Any tails?" he asked briskly, leaning back against the creased leather bench.  
  
"No. All clear." She nodded to herself, and pulled her knees up to her chest.  
  
"Calm down, Sydney. You're alright," he said quietly.  
  
She let out a shuddering laugh, and rolled her shoulders in defeat.  
  
"So," she asked finally, "why Dad?"  
  
"You know why," he answered swiftly. "To hurt you."  
  
"OK, smart ass. Why hurt me?" she snapped.  
  
He grinned. "There's my girl."  
  
"Julian," she warned.  
  
"It's the prophecy, Sydney. Irina believes in nothing so blindly she does as in Milo Rambaldi."  
  
"What prophecy? There's another one?"  
  
"Oh, yes. He made hundreds. Unfortunately for you, yours was the destiny he took most interest in." Sark took a drink of the scalding black coffee and instantly regretted it.  
  
"The Notebook, right? I tried to get a hold of it, as you know, but I never found it. What's in it?"  
  
He shook his head slightly. "I never read it in detail. Irina didn't say why she wanted it so I didn't bother. I just assumed she wanted to screw over the CIA. Truthfully, who wouldn't?"  
  
"I appreciate that, Julian, I really do," she said sarcastically.  
  
"Nothing personal. You're not CIA anymore," he corrected. "Now don't interrupt."  
  
She kicked him under the table.  
  
"Focus, Sydney. The prophecy. From what I gathered, it's a biography on your entire life. So far, everything has come true - everything you've ever done is detailed in the Notebook. Myself included," he added. "Rambaldi dictates a time of decision, where you can disappear from this life or become the dominating player in every aspect of the espionage world. Someone to rival Irina herself. Obviously, that exact event happened nearly a week ago, when you were effecting a lifestyle change that would take you out of the game permanently. Irina would not allow that to happen. Twisted though it is, she does love you, Sydney. In her mind she was helping you on your way to greatness by forcing your hand. It was predetermined that you would be ruler of this little world you so despise."  
  
"Going with the belief that all this shit is true, why bother killing Dad? It was already set in stone that I would never leave with Eric."  
  
"Because throughout Rambaldi insists that it can all be changed," Sark explained. "He wanted you to escape. In his Notebook he describes you as almost immortal, Sydney, but he always insists that it can all be changed. It just slipped his mind as to how."  
  
"So it was Eric? Irina thought Rambaldi meant Eric could change the prophecy?" Sydney wondered, incredulous.  
  
"Perhaps. I can't speak for Irina, darling, and I really never want to," Sark admitted. "Your mother killed her husband so that you wouldn't pass up your destiny. Her reasons are her own."  
  
"But that still doesn't answer anything. Why would killing Dad stop me from leaving the CIA?" she growled, gauging the scratched tabletop with her fingernails. "Why can't I just stop by on my way to Maui and empty a clip into her gut? I don't get it, Julian!"  
  
Sark exhaled slowly, hesitating before answering. "Irina Derevko has many enemies, Sydney. She's now the only leader of the six Covenant cells, as well as what's left of her own organization, which I myself helped her build. But she also has allies. People owe her favors. People will be afraid of her even after she's dead. They'll avenge her death if only for social standing."  
  
Questions, tense and immediate, jumped to her mouth, but she kept quiet. Tears of frustration clouded her eyes but she remained silent.  
  
"If you kill Irina you can never be free. If you avenge your father you will need protection of every kind, because other organization leaders will be too terrified to risk leaving you alive," Sark continued in a low monotone, glancing around the perimeters of the deserted 24-hour diner. "Killing Irina will prove that you are the threat you were always rumored to be. Others have read the Notebook. In time everyone will know your potential. You'll be caught up in this game deeper than ever, and this time you can never escape."  
  
"Then why kill Dad at all, if I'll only die for revenge against Irina? I understand wanting to keep it all in the family, but it doesn't make sense!" she argued.  
  
"Because you won't die. Not with me by your side," Sark said confidently. "She knows I won't let you go in blind. She knows I lo-" He stumbled to an abrupt halt. "She knows we're involved," he continued carefully. "If you murder her without covering all your bases, I'm a target by proxy. She taught me well enough to never act when unprepared."  
  
Those weren't his reasons and they both saw it, but today Sydney lacked to courage to call his bluff.  
  
Sydney didn't reply at once, looking out the unwashed window at the empty parking lot beyond. She could feel Sark's eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, staring at her with expectant intensity.  
  
"So, what? How do we keep ourselves from getting killed? Let alone, find Irina?" she said, her voice thick and rusted.  
  
Sark reached into his jacket, retrieving a blood-smattered disk and holding it up for her to see.  
  
"We build our own organization," he stated.  
  
Chicago. The disk containing the coordinates of several weapon stockpiles belonging to almost every high-powered arms-dealing syndicate in the world. She stared at it with surprise and loathing.  
  
"You had the foresight to beat the crap out of me for that disk, just in case I needed to build my own criminal empire?" she asked sardonically.  
  
"Well, it was more a matter of pride, originally," he conceded. "It's rather simple, really. We use this to steal millions of dollars worth of weaponry, then sell it off for a tidy profit. We do some dirty work for people wanting to keep their hands clean, hire a couple incompetent desk jockeys and call it a business. From there, I assure you, darling, everyone worth their inarticulate bodyguards will think twice about crossing us."  
  
"That'll take a while," Sydney noted. "And besides, won't that just piss everybody off even more?"  
  
"Of course. But you must realize, I'm one of the most renowned freelance operatives since Jack Bristow retired from the field. And you - well, you effectively bitch-slapped every major organization in your first year at SD- 6 alone. Together..."  
  
"Bonnie and Clyde go 20th Century," she summarized.  
  
"Quite."  
  
The faint smile she wore disappeared, and she returned to memorizing the view of the parking lot. The decision was too final, too fatal, for her to stand to comprehend.  
  
"One other thing," Sark said. She turned back to him and he'd have done anything to save her. "Everyone has to know for this to work. Everyone involved has to know that we mean business. Including," she realized even as he said it, "The CIA."  
  
It hit Sydney hard. Pain she'd ignored since her father's funeral became all too real, too severe to even cry. For two years, almost three now, she'd survived only with the hope of returning home. She sat frozen, systematically locking off memories that risked triggering tears and desolation. Sark didn't dare touch her.  
  
"I can't protect you, Sydney," he said mutedly after a long moment. "I can't give you a home, I can't give you safety. I'd offer you my heart but it isn't worth giving, I'm afraid." He paused, would normally have laughed, smirked, run, but he never could hide from her, "All I can give you is the assurance that I will never betray you," he whispered, "and I will never stop wanting you."  
  
Sydney fought the urge to knock those damned sunglasses off his face. His eyes never showed her anything, anyway. He was just as hurt, just as badly scarred as she was; he simply hid it better.  
  
Without hesitation she reached across the table and clasped both his hands in hers - squeezed tightly and refused to let go. Sark observed the gesture with a jarred, detached expression of surprise.  
  
"Ditto," she said  
  
-  
  
_I never saw a smile like that -   
  
Such megawatt charm.  
  
I've never been on trial like that  
  
Never until now.  
  
Or been helpless for a while like that;  
  
Feels different, maybe. Painless.  
  
I never danced in style like that  
  
'cause you were never in my arms.  
  
I never walked a mile like that -  
  
So I guess I'll stick around._  
  
_- excerpt taken from "_Malfunction_", a poem by Wes Morlen_  
  
-  
  
"Hey, buddy. What happened last night?"  
  
Right. Sunday Hockeyfest. He'd forgotten.  
  
"Oh, hi, Mike. Sorry I forgot to call you. Something came up." Eric hit the 'enter' key with unnecessary force.  
  
Vaughn stood warily beside the desk, watching closely as his best friend waged war with the memo he was typing.  
  
"Anything else?" Eric snapped irritably.  
  
"C'mon, Eric. It's been over a month. She's gone," Vaughn said quietly.

"The Covenant cells are becoming active again. I was helping Marshall decipher some intercepted transmissions. But thanks for the vote of confidence," he answered shortly.  
  
"I loved her too, man. You know that,"  
  
Without warning Eric let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Yeah, Mike, I know. You loved her. But guess what?" He viciously slammed closed the report stats he'd been reviewing. "You've got your wife, Mike. You had your chance with Syd and you fucked it up. But I didn't!"  
  
Before Vaughn could do anything but display his trademark puzzled frown, Eric brushed past him, going nowhere in particular except the hell away from Sydney's past boy-toy. Vaughn considered going after him. Considered advising Jack Daniels and a syringe, his relief of choice after losing Sydney those wretched years ago. Didn't because he knew Eric could never forget her even if he wanted to.  
  
It'd been a little over a month since Sydney's third disappearance. Eric wasn't and would never fully recover. He'd done everything right and she'd chosen Sark.

Bitter? Yeah. His biggest problem was that he'd preemptively forgiven her.   
  
"Did you talk to Barnett?" Vaughn called after him, falling into step on the way to Dixon's office.  
  
"Yeah. Thanks for the recommendation, too." Eric kept his gaze level, maneuvering the familiar halls blindly.  
  
"What'd she say?" Vaughn persisted.  
  
Eric halted abruptly, rounded on his best friend, struggled to contain the explosive current of helplessness that was slowly strangling him. "She said the same damn thing everybody's been telling me since the first time Sydney went AWOL three years ago. She's gone. Nobody knows where she is or if she's even alive. I get it. Kudos, Mike, you figured it out. I miss her."  
  
He turned to keep walking but Vaughn restrained him by grabbing his arm. "You were friends, Eric. I know. But you've got to let it go. I mean, it's not like you were - I mean, - you weren't... were you?"  
  
Eric let out a sigh, long and hollow and at once that shuddering laughter returned. "What does it matter? Syd trusted me, Mike. You don't understand. You all think you do, but you don't. She trusted me. She's out there somewhere and I can't help her." He let out a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a howl. "And it's killing me."  
  
-  
  
All eyes were on him as he entered. He was used to that by now.  
  
"Agent Weiss," Dixon began instantly, "did you keep your appointment with -"  
  
"Yep," Weiss interrupted, and slid into his seat.  
  
The Conference room didn't fit anymore; It was too large, too sterile. Two empty chairs side-by-side spoke something too significant to acknowledge.  
  
"Good," Dixon said briskly. "Listen up, everybody."  
  
Everybody. It was just the five of them now, Marshall, Dixon, Weiss and the Vaughns. Without the Bristows they were no longer a group. Now they were merely co-workers.  
  
"There's a new player in town. Call themselves the Medici. They've been causing quite a stir, stealing billions worth of arms and explosives without any hint of where they'll strike. Our contacts have reported that they've got everyone spooked - including the Covenant." Dixon gestured to the screen beside him, which ran a grainy security tape of a nameless, grey- walled facility. "They strike fast and brutal. Last night they raided a CIA storage facility. The security network went down for 2.47 minutes, and when the lights came back up a shipment of high-grade sniper rifles and 14 pounds of raw C4 were found missing. 7 guards were down on the scene." He paused, took on a look of solemn, disbelieving anger. The picture on the screen jumped, cut to black. Marshall obediently fast-forwarded the tape. A moment later it flickered back to life.  
  
First there was only smoke, vague forms of unconscious guards barely visible. Soon twin shapes walked down the hallway, each carrying a heavy, locked aluminum safe-case.  
  
"What am I seeing here?" Vaughn demanded. "What - what is this?"  
  
Lauren grabbed hold of his hand.  
  
Eric, from lack of other options, began laughing.  
  
Onscreen, Sark holstered his Glock and moved his hand to rest easily on Sydney's hip. Alerted, she glanced upward, straight at the security camera. Sark's lips moved, and her face steeled. She reached up and blew a kiss at the camera.  
  
They stepped over the beaten guards and disappeared.  
  
"They've run analysis," Dixon continued wearily. "It came back a positive ID. It's her. She's working with Sark."

Unanimously they looked to Eric. He sat clutching his pen with an indecipherable expression on his face.   
  
"I will ask this once. Did any of you know about her alliance with Mr. Sark?" Dixon gritted.  
  
Unblinking, unbelieving, they watched Eric.  
  
"Could anybody read what Sark said?" he asked, breaking the extended silence.  
  
"It looked like -" Vaughn started, then faltered. "It looked like he said 'No going back'."  
  
"Body language? Expressions? Come on, people, you're the best we've got. Give me something to go on here," Dixon appealed.  
  
"Sydney's always been easy to read," Vaughn said quietly. "You could always tell what she was feeling from the look in her eyes. But now - I don't know, she's cold. Desolate. Like she just lost her best friend."  
  
Bad metaphor. Bad, bad metaphor.  
  
"But Sark - " Vaughn wanted to cry, or vomit, and it showed. "He never gave off much, but here - hell, just look at him. He's practically wearing a neon sign on his back."  
  
"Get to the point, Agent Vaughn,"Dixon snapped.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, voice cracking as he gestured toward the screen. "Look at the way he's walking. The smirk. The way he's touching her. He looks like a kid locked in a candy store. He looks like a guy who's getting lucky every night of the week." He spoke increasingly louder, harsher. "He looks like he's exactly where he wants to be and like he always knew he'd get there."  
  
"But she's just faking it, right? She's working from the inside again, like at SD-6," Marshall argued quickly and somewhat desperately. "I mean, she wouldn't do something like this without a reason, right? She's - I mean, you know, she's - well, Sydney!"  
  
"If she is, she's in way over her head," Dixon noted. "We have to work under the assumption that Sydney has turned into a traitor to the United States."  
  
Again, that unbearable quiet. Jack would have cautioned foolhardiness, Sydney would have insisted on decisive action. Without them there was silence.  
  
"I didn't know her very well," Lauren hazarded, "but everything I've ever seen or heard about her contradicts this. Sydney Bristow was true to a fault. She wouldn't betray us."

"She would," Eric said instantly, drawing surprise and contempt from the others. "If she had to. If she was hurt badly enough. She would."  
  
"But with Sark? How the hell did she even hook up with that bastard?" demanded Vaughn.  
  
"He probably heard about Jack," Marshall said instantly.  
  
"He could have kidnapped her after the funeral," Eric added a little too forcefully.  
  
"We can speculate all we want, but it doesn't change facts." Dixon sat down heavily, saddened and tired and for an moment showing his age. "I love Sydney Bristow dearly. She was like a daughter to me. And I know how dear she is to everyone seated in this room. But until further notice, each and every one of you is to treat her as a threat. If you see her you have orders to disarm, using force if necessary." He didn't hesitate before adding, "And if you see Mr. Sark, shoot first and ask questions later. Understood?"  
  
Eric had known he'd lost her. Just not like this.


	19. Brittle Bones

-  
**Part 18 : Brittle Bones**  
-

She was moments away from bitch-slapping the security guard.  
  
"Alright, ma'am. You're clear," he said, handing over her tote bag.  
  
Clear. She could kill him with her thumbs. Clear, he says.  
  
Tossing her auburn hair over her shoulder, she paced down the terminal, hips swinging. Sark, it seemed, was no more merciful when planning disguises than Marshall.  
  
Sydney tugged at the brim of her cowboy hat and thought, _Arsenic_. Nobody should drink that much wine and realistically expect not to eventually be poisoned.  
  
A limo was parked conveniently at the curb. Black. To match her skin- tight rawhide jumper. Yee. Haw.  
  
"Question," she stated as she slid into the back seat. A parking attendant closed the door and she met Sark's eyes in the rear view mirror. "Why is it that you are perfectly content meandering the streets of Los Angeles carrying a Glock in one hand and a detonator in the other, whereas I am forced to wear degrading disguises while at a small airport on the northern coast of Scotland?"  
  
He idly spun the wheel, darting into traffic. To his credit, he was dressed in a nondescript chauffer uniform. A devilish grin flickered across Sark's face. "You're more recognizable. Trust me, darling, you're not an easy person to forget."  
  
"Oh, and you are?!" she argued shrilly, kicking off the painfully heeled snakeskin boots. "'_Well, my dear chap, why don't you just pop over to my flat and I can kill you after tea! Spiffing, what-what!_'" she imitated in a painfully nasal accent.  
  
He shot her an amused look through the mirror. "I'm Welsh, actually. But I admire your language skills."  
  
Sydney, to her eternal shame, let out a string of half-formed contradictory verbs. When, after several tries, she failed to form a complete sentence, she flung herself back against the leather seats. "Central Intelligence Agency," she said listlessly. "Central. The most wealthy country in the world. It took them five freakin' years to figure out your first name! Seriously, guys. Central Intelligence!"  
  
"They didn't by any chance serve coffee with lunch?" he asked faintly.  
  
"Bite me," she grunted.  
  
"Work before play, darling," Sark scolded. "How was your trip?"  
  
"Grating. They kept expecting federal agents to pop out from under the desk."  
  
"Did you make the sale?"  
  
"4 million for the Uzis and the Semtex. And there's a chance I might have threatened to tip their location to the local government."  
  
He grinned. "I'm starting to believe you have a natural talent for extortion."  
  
"You should see me play poker."  
  
It was a frivolous subtext that couldn't hold up. A deadly conversation painted as a give-and-take chat. Sark made a clean cut.  
  
"I was contacted this morning by a new client," he started. "The leader of a reclusive group of Russian operatives called the Osirus, specializing in drug trafficking. The going offer is 90 thousand. They asked for us specifically; No sub-contracting, I'm afraid." He passed over a set of Polaroids, blurry snapshots taken from a distance. "Our mark is one Ladimir Arekhov, a former employee of Osirus whom they've come believe betrayed them to the Russian government during his brief stint as a runner. He's turned family man now, managing several branches of his father-in-law's kitchenware company. They'd like him eliminated."  
  
Sydney glanced at the photos; They showed Arekhov in various places along the thriving streets of Scouri, a tall, wiry man with thinning dark hair and a smile tirelessly straining his face.  
  
"He'll be dining tonight at a restaurant in the western district called _La Salle De Rose_," Sark added.  
  
"Typical," she said flippantly.  
  
"Quite. I've procured reservations for 7:00. Arekhov normally arrives around 8:15."  
  
"OK, Sark, just a pointer," Sydney put in. "A romantic dinner sounds great, but slipping out during desert to assassinate a Russian drug dealer kinda kills the mood."  
  
His expression of near-boredom never slipped. Unblinking, he kept his eyes on the road. "I'll take you out bloody dancing another time, Sydney. Tonight is business."  
  
"It's been two months since she killed him, Julian. It feels like we're working our way backwards."  
  
"That's because we are," he said brutally. "You got so far ahead in this game you almost escaped. This will take time, darling, but you'll get your revenge eventually."  
  
She remained silent, blindly staring out the tinted window. Sark recognized that look, and despised it. It was Sydney feeling scared, Sydney being weak, Sydney being everything that always led to heartbreak.  
  
"I'll be doing this 'til the day I die, won't I?" she asked faintly, clutching the identifying Polaroids in her hand.  
  
She waited, but Sark didn't have an answer for her.  
  
-  
  
They checked in under assumed names at a high-class hotel overlooking the shore. They kept the curtains firmly closed, white daylight filtering through the cracks and casting a pallor over the dark, cool room.  
  
The clock on the nightstand converted to 6:00, and they rested, out of breath, tangled between the sweat-stained sheets. They didn't speak, or acknowledge, just struggled for air and ignored the detailed strategy they should be creating for tonight's operation.  
  
He observed her, lying on her stomach - smooth, opaque skin, miles of it, silk hair and red lips and chocolate-colored eyes flickered shut. He smiled faintly as he slid his hand along the mattress to caress her bare arm.  
  
Unexpectedly, she flinched.  
  
A quick procession of thoughts - confusion, resentment, anger, self-loathing. He didn't object when she moved away, rolling onto her side to face the wall.  
  
"Sydney -" he began, but the words died on his tongue.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to ask about the suddenly change, the shift in the dynamics of their puzzling relationship. There was a problem that needed to be acknowledge, a roadblock they'd stumbled over from the very beginning, a tear that needed to be fixed. From a lifetime of solitude Sark instinctually ignored it.  
  
After a moment he glanced at the clock glowing on the nightstand. "We'd best be going. Arekhov could arrive early," he said.  
  
Without a word Sydney slipped out of bed and stooped to gather their clothes. Silent, efficient, emotionless.  
  
-  
  
A table in the corner, away from the crowd, a perfect view of the dance floor. "Our anniversary," the man explained, and no further excuse was necessary. The woman was undeniably beautiful. Her husband held a hand on her hip with territorial fierceness.  
  
There's truth in disguise, Sydney had learned.  
  
They ordered dinner - the finest champagne, compliments of the manager to the happy couple - and they waited, Sark compulsively checking the silenced Glock hidden in his jacket.  
  
"You should eat," he said mechanically as she watched her salad.  
  
"I'm not particularly hungry," she answered, turning a tomato with her fork.  
  
They waited in silence.  
  
With a sudden jerk he reached across the table and took hold her hand, running his thumb along her knuckles. From a distance it was a caress, a natural gesture of someone hopelessly in love. From a distance you couldn't see her near-recoil, or the restrained force with which he reached for her.  
  
"When Arekhov arrives, I don't want to linger. As soon as the waiter leaves, we approach from the left, circle the table, then out the back entrance through the kitchen," Sark said mutedly, staring vigilantly at their entwined hands. "I'll do it. Just stay close behind me. If anything happens I want to you leave immediately. No questions asked," he insisted.  
  
Sydney glanced up from her plate, caught in a rending limbo: kiss him witless or tear her hand away. In the indistinct light of the French restaurant, she was reminded of the night she sang to him in Paris, back in the old days at SD-6, back when they were enemies, when up wasn't down and revenge wasn't a brittle lifeline. Silent and smoldering, his boyish face clashing with the barbaric intensity in his crystal eyes, he drew Sydney's arm over and kissed her fingers.  
  
She pulled away like she'd been burned.  
  
Sark grimaced slightly, hesitated. He took a swallow of liquor, scalding the back of his throat, and returned the glass carefully.  
  
"I'm curious," he stated precisely, "as to the sudden change in your demeanor. Tell me, is it something I've done, or are you merely following the flight pattern of all your previous relationships?"  
  
"Don't," she said, flinching. "Don't do that."  
  
"Do what? Show my admitted affection for you? Would you rather I be venomous?" he drawled, strenuously composed.  
  
"Yes," she answered, her eyes on the tabletop, the ceiling, anywhere but on him.

She left him momentarily speechless; another ability he so admired in her.  
  
"I was being sarcastic, darling," he stated belatedly.  
  
"Don't," she repeated. "Don't call me that. Don't tell me you love me. For God's sakes, don't -"  
  
Voices, loud and boisterous. A recently arrived party, two tables over. Children, all younger than 10, danced around their parents legs.  
  
"Arekhov," Sark whispered tritely.  
  
He'd come with his family, twin boys, a toddler dressed in pink, and a glowing, pregnant wife. He laughingly addressed the waiter with familiarity.  
  
Sydney watched in shock, dangerously close to tears.  
  
"He - his kids. We can't –" she stuttered.  
  
Sensing disaster, Sark leaned quickly forward and grasped her face in his hands. "Look at me, Sydney," he ordered quietly.  
  
"I can't do this, not in front of his family. I don't care about Irina. I can't, Julian," she whispered, her voice cracking.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
Finally she obeyed, meeting a searing gaze void of sympathy.  
  
"Why are you running from me?" he demanded.  
  
Quiet, calm, avoid notice, Sydney told herself. (Ignore the pain, ignore everything, ignore it until it's gone.)  
  
He wouldn't ask her again.  
  
"Because I can't do this if you love me," she burst, shaking. "I can't kill innocent men, I can't murder my mother, I can't - I can't betray my friends if you're one of them."  
  
He held on to her firmly, disallowing it when she tried to turn her head away.  
  
"I couldn't bear for you to end up just another Danny or Simon or Vaughn."  
  
Sark froze; For the briefest of moments, he froze. Then he launched to his feet, seizing Sydney cruelly by the arm and pulling her after him. Her surprised cry drew the attention of other diners, but he was beyond caring. He dragged her brutally after him, approaching Arekhov's table intently.  
  
Bizarrely, Sydney would remember most vividly of that night the flickering second where Arekhov's wife met Sydney's gaze, before she could begin screaming, before shock could even register as her husband fell forward onto the pristine tablecloth.  
  
Fluidly, almost cavalierly, Sark drew the silenced Glock from its shoulder holster and placed three quick bullets in Arekhov's chest. Before the shrieking could even echo through the air, he'd led Sydney through the swinging kitchen doors and out into the darkened alleyway behind La Salle De Rose.  
  
-  
  
Sydney protested in confusion as he navigated the twisting alleys he'd memorized earlier that morning. Left, right, right, left, straight, right, left...  
  
She scraped her heels along the concrete, knocking Sark off balance and forcing a halt. Sydney shot him a warning look as he began to admonish her. Love or hate him, she could still take him any day of the week.  
  
"You killed him. In front of his family," she accused. "You -"  
  
"It's my job," Sark murmured, struggling for control.  
  
"It's murder!" she hurled back at him.  
  
"I'm a killer!" he suddenly exploded, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her against the brick wall of a nameless building. "I'm a killer, Sydney! I'm not Danny Hecht, I'm not Simon Walker, and I am sure as hell not Michael Vaughn!"  
  
An unintelligible whimper slipped from her lips. Sark couldn't stand her like this; vulnerable, weak, terrified of her own skin.  
  
All at once he got it.  
  
Half a dozen languages. Basic knowledge in everything from quantum mechanics to limited neurosurgery. Skills ranging from Krav Magna to Cordon Bleu cooking 101. Sark was faintly surprised it took him to long to realize.  
  
"I won't die," he told her. "You have my word on that. I won't ever leave you alone."  
  
Another noise, a wordless squeak from Sydney.  
  
"Good lord, Sydney, I'm not going anywhere. You can stop whimpering," he assured, smiling faintly.  
  
She repeated herself, this time slightly louder: "You're squishing me."  
  
Laughing at the sudden absurdity, he stepped back, freeing her from the wall.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "For back there. I'm sorry. I just get - sometimes I -"  
  
"You'll always be CIA at heart. I understand," said Sark curtly.  
  
"I'm becoming my mother, you know. This is exactly what she planned for me."  
  
"Yes," he said placidly. "We're playing into her hands and we all know it. But she wanted us to kill her, Sydney. At any rate, I hate to see a good plan go to waste."  
  
She let out a shuddering breath, staring up at the dark sky blotted with stars and streetlamps. "It is worth it," she said after a moment.  
  
"Revenge isn't all that satisfying, actually," he noted casually.  
  
"No. Your heart. It is worth it," Sydney whispered.  
  
He shot her a sidelong glance, indistinct in the murky blackness of the alleyway. He didn't trust himself to kiss her.  
  
"It's not too late," he answered slowly. "You can still get out, you know. Walk away from revenge. I can... I can get you out of this."  
  
Sydney shook her head, graced him with a sad smile. She reached out and took hold of Sark's hand.  
  
"C'mon, Jules. We've got work to do. Things to steal, people to assassinate." She began walking, tugging him along.  
  
His smirk returned. "'Jules'?"  
  
"Would you prefer JuJu?"  
  
"You know, you're cute when you're annoying."  
  
"I've been told."  
  
They were both imperfect, but they'd survive. 


	20. Schism

Author's Notes | Miss me? Just say yes – an unloved author is an unoriginal author. Anyway… I beg forgiveness for the over-2-week delay. My excuse this time? I **wasn't** in the hospital! *Claps happily before realizing excuse makes no sense* Ah, yes, well… I was away. Again. Just vertically-capable, this time, and on slightly less morphine. In other words, I was a hell of a lot more fun when I was sick.   
  I really hate irony.  
  But distress not, cheries, for I come with a friggin' huge chapter, as well as – A BRAND SPANKIN' NEW BETA! Yayyyy! Wooooo! Everyone thank Becca, who works very quickly and for minimum wage, and still manages to put some order to my erratic typing moods. Case in point : I continually spell "At least" as one word. So, yeah, everybody send a thanks to Becca, a fruit basket would be nice, a card maybe… It's noticable, what she's done, believe me. So, again, thank you, Bec.

  Also a mob of other people, such as equisetum, Sydney47, cindymusiclover, fairieangel, Chaosti, Fanatic482, Kara, Lex – thank you so much for your reviews, and I'm sorry if I inevitably mispelled your names. And to anybody else I forgot, I don't mean to slight you, I'm just too lazy to click onto the next page of reviews. Please know that I extremely value your reviews – I ain't kidding, sometimes I actually re-read them from time to time. Pathetic, non?   
  Must stop talking now. Thank you all for listening. Cheers!  
  


-  
Part Twenty : Schism  
-

  
"Assassinations, arms trafficking... Blackmailing, terrorist threats," Dixon glanced briefly at the file in his hands, "and one count of Grand Theft Auto. They're not working alone, either. Over the past 3 weeks, there have been simultaneous operations all over Europe: cocaine trafficking in Ireland, a bombing in Manchester. Sydney herself was spotted in Stavanger, Norway, minutes after the explosion at the embassy. Sark, meanwhile, was in Poltava, reportedly selling a shipment of M-14s to a drug cartel."

  
"What is this?" Vaughn exploded, throwing up his arms in defeat. "What the hell is she doing?"

  
"It seems she is running a wildly successful crime syndicate." Lauren observed beside him.

  
"Our operatives have been reporting discourse within every major organization world-wide," Dixon said, his voice tightly controlled. "The Medici has everyone on edge. They accept contracts from independent organizations and then steal millions from them after they've been paid. But they also deliver results."

"Ladimir Arekhov, a former drug runner for an offshoot sector of the Russian Mafia. Two days ago he was murdered in front of his family in a secluded restaurant on the streets of Scouri, Scotland. The security tape was later discovered to be missing." He cleared his throat painfully. "Witnesses described the shooter as a man in his late twenties, blond hair, blue eyes. He was accompanied by a woman, also late twenties, brown hair, brown eyes, said to be his wife. Many of the diners observed their affectionate actions toward each other throughout the course of their meal."

  
"She was on a mission. She could have just been playing a part, living the disguise," Marshall put in hurriedly. "C'mon, this is Syd we're talking about. You know how careful she is about the details."

  
"A CIA operative in Russia reported a major transfer of funds 6 hours after Arekhov was murdered. The money went to 9 different accounts spanning the entirety of Europe. Presumably it was a big payday for the Medici," Dixon explained with disgust.

  
"So who are they? The Medici? And why would Syd agree to work for them, with Sark of all people?" Vaughn asked adamantly.

  
From the far corner of the conference room, silent until this point, Eric laughed. Humorless, ragged, he laughed. 

  
"Any thoughts, Agent Weiss?" Dixon prompted wearily.

  
"There is no 'they'," he answered, shaking his head. "She's not working for a behind-the-scenes mastermind. She is the mastermind."

  
An uneasy silence descended the room, something far too commonplace in the absence of the Bristows.

  
"Explain, Weiss," Dixon commanded stiffly. "Is there anything you're not telling us?"

  
"Sydney's working with Sark to seek vengeance against her murdering bitch of a mother. That's all I know," Eric said shortly. 

  
"Well that's a hell of a lot more than I do!" Dixon yelled, rising out of his seat.

  
"Why would she do such a thing?" Lauren interrupted quickly, stalling the explosion of frustration from within the group. "Why with Mr. Sark? Surely she could reach the same results from working with the CIA. We, all of us, want to see Irina Derevko brought to justice. I see no need for this - this Medici business."

  
"Because Sydney doesn't want justice," Eric said tiredly. "Sydney wants blood."

  
In the ensuing uncertainty, the air charged with anger and discord, Marshall spoke haltingly. "When Sark came to my house - before Sydney came back the second time," he coughed, adjusted his tie, avoided Dixon's gaze at all costs, "the disk, it wasn't blank. It - you see, the firewalls, they were coded, right, basic SHTML, nothing fancy, brilliantly done, wish I'd thought of it -"

  
"Marshall," Dixon cautioned.

  
"Right, right. The disk. I decoded it, eventually. Gotta say, gun at my head? Not such a constructive environment. Anyway, I - it was massive, some of the files on the disk. Some people I'd never heard of: Samantha Laroche, Finn Ryden, others. Also listed were Arvin Sloane and Irina Derevko. Plus lots of references to the Covenant."

  
Eric listened with half-hearted resentment. They'd both promised to safeguard Sydney's secret, the whereabouts of her lost two years, but it didn't matter now. Now it was all about keeping their sanity.

  
"I think - well, that is to say, I'm making an educated guess here, that Irina Derevko might be leading the Covenant," Marshall finished nervously.

  
"How long have you known this?" Dioxn said after a dangerous pause. He looked directly at Eric.

  
"A while," he said, challenging. "Fire me if you want. It wasn't my story to tell."

  
"So Sydney was held captive for two years under the orders of her mother?" Lauren wondered aloud.

  
"Syd wants to destroy the Covenant," Eric admitted spiritlessly. "She wants to kill everybody who has ever hurt her. She wants to burn Rambaldi's artifacts to hell. She wanted to get out, too, but - but I wasn't..."

  
He stared at the floor, unaware or simply uncaring of his colleagues.

  
"She told me she wasn't being brave," Marshall said suddenly. "Sydney never thought what she did was bravery. I don't think it ever really crossed her mind. She just - she just did what had to be done."

  
They fell again into a morose silence, each remembering Sydney; Sydney at her best, or at her worst, never anything less than phenomenal.

  
"Why Sark, though? Why would he agree to help her?" Vaughn asked petulantly.

  
Eric grimaced, a dark grin showing on his face. "Because Syd's got him completely whipped, that's why."

  
The outpouring of disgust and dismay from the decreased assembly of the CIA's former Dream Team, immediate, tense and disbelieving, was stemmed by the insistent ringing of the phone at Dixon's side. He answered it rigidly, and made an indistinct sound of permission.

  
His expression quickly changed from dire control to desperate confusion.

  
"That was security section," he said carefully. "There's been a breach at level four in this building. Someone's breaking in as we speak."

  
-

  
Her sneakers pounded routinely against the dull blacktop - bleached grey from years of sunlight - her ponytail flapping against her neck and an unknown tune blearing through her headphones. She absently wondered if this was a song Marshall had suggested, one he had compiled onto a CD that she had lost in the clutter of packing back when Weiss had convinced her she could escape.

  
She yanked the headphones from her ears with aggravation.

  
"Don't despair, darling. I'm sure N'Sync will have a reunion album soon," commented a mocking voice from behind her.

  
Sydney angled her head to glance at Sark, resplendent in wrinkled jogging clothes, attempting in vain to gain parallel ground with her fast pace.

  
He met her eyes when she continued to stare.

  
"I take it back," she announced, gesturing toward his outfit. "You should always wear designer suits."

  
"Shocking, isn't it?"

  
She laughed. "You're like a friggin' vampire, I'm not kidding."

  
They lapsed into an easy silence, moving effortlessly past the other joggers clogging the suburban street in the early hours of the weekend.

  
"I was contacted yesterday, while you were clearing up that business in Stavanger. Excellent work, by the way. A lesser operative would have cut and run."

"He was trying to dodge payment. I don't work for free," she replied shortly. "And quit smirking at me, you have no influence over my work ethics whatsoever."

  
"Denial: is there anything it can't do?" he shot back, grinning.

  
"As you were saying..." Sydney said tersely.

  
"Diversionary tactics. How cute."

  
"I should warn you, I have no qualms with hitting a woman." she said.

  
"Don't hate me for my beauty," he responded placidly.

  
Sydney devoutly refused to retort.

  
"A prospective employer, interested in hiring us to steal a minor artifact currently in possession of the CIA," he relented. "Just a trinket, really, nothing of use. All the same, he's willing to pay a pretty price for it," Sark recited, the words playing out as he'd planned a thousand times since receiving the offer.

  
Sydney could see straight through him. She always had.

  
"This trinket," she repeated, purposefully redoubling her pace. "It wouldn't be - gee, I don't know... Rambaldi-oriented?"

  
Sark slackened to a halt, forcing her to face him. "Yes," he admitted. "A very minor piece, some type of quill pen, apparently. No known use for it. The CIA actually found it by accident - some years before you were recruited, if it matters."

  
"It doesn't," she said softly, leveling her rapid heartbeat.

  
"I know the buyer," he stated. "James Pike. I worked with him once or twice while under the employment of The Man." 

  
Sydney kept her gaze on the surrounding tree line, squinting in the harsh morning light.

  
"He says he represents the Covenant," Sark added. "We can't afford to refuse their offer, Sydney. Aside from the monetary requirements, we don't have the social standing to openly insult the Covenant. Not yet, at any rate. Obviously Irina sent him for a reason."

  
"She's testing me," acknowledged Sydney. "She'll make it as hard as possible for me to destroy her."

  
"Our best option is to go along with it. Like it or not, she does plan for you to eventually get your revenge. As despicable as it is, we can't really lose," he pointed out.

  
"Yes we can," she said definitely. "We already have."

  
After a moment's disquiet, he kissed her; an unmistakable action of a man who had lost a verbal battle and sought to win by way of human weakness. She soon broke away, absently running her fingers along his face.

  
"When is the meeting?" she asked.

  
"Tomorrow night. Leven. Not far from Sipiwesk."

  
Sydney nodded carefully, clenched her jaw and looked away. He hated himself then.

  
With little else to say, she turned and continued on at an accelerated pace.

  
-

  
Dark corners and rusted metal, everything made of cement, the air holding the acerbic taste of blood and chipped paint. She'd been in dozens, hundreds, of identical labyrinths built and forgotten for the sole purpose of housing secrets.

  
More succinctly, a warehouse.

  
The Medici had come prepared – bug killers at every checkpoint and a back-up team armed with Uzis stationed half a block northwest from the back exit. The agreement had been for no unnecessary witnesses. Pike would bring only his bodyguards.  Sydney and Sark were most deadly when unaided.

  
They waited in silence for Pike's arrival, their stances in an odd reversal of their normal roles. Sark leaned stiffly against the perfunctory metal table - dominant in the minimalist chamber marred only by crumbling pillars - tapping his fingers against his arm in uncustomary impatience. Alternately, Sydney sat on one of the three folding chairs, her feet propped leisurely on the tabletop, breathing steadily through her nose, her face a mask of neurotic stoicism.

  
"We'll ask for a ridiculously high price, of course. Might as well make him fight for it," Sark said mechanically, something he'd said repeatedly in the last 20 minutes, to break the silence and to deter her attention from the cruel suspense she was facing.

  
"Calm down, Julian," she answered. "I'm fine."

  
He nodded uncertainly, and ran his hand comfortingly along her leg. She smiled briefly, turning her eyes back to the red-painted emergency door.

  
Fashionably late, the doorknob turned.

  
Sark's usual manner of business decorum had changed dramatically since his alliance with Sydney. Formerly he'd maintained an unapproachable guise of disinterest, unnerving his clients into blindly accepting his terms if only to get away from his perturbing gaze faster. Sydney took the opposite approach - showing her unconcern with, well, unconcern. It antagonized buyers, made them hope to challenge her, offer higher stakes for a harder assignment. Cool efficiency gets you respect, she'd told him, but insolence gets you street credit.

  
After a relatively short and undeniably colorful career, he supposed she would know.

  
Pike approached, flanked by bodyguards, and she didn't even bother taking her feet off the table.

  
He was an unexpectedly small man, dark haired and unhandsome, forgettable but that was an asset in their business. The two men trailing after him were of no consequence - a dime a dozen, not worth the bullets that would eventually end up lodged in their arteries. 

  
"Sark. Good to see you again," Pike greeted him in his falsely casual southern drawl, offering his hand. Sark shook it with unveiled hauteur. Pike ignored him, nodding to Sydney. "Ms. Bristow," he acknowledged. Then, "I'm sorry, is it Ms. Thorne now? Dare I say, Mrs. Sark, perhaps? Forgive my ignorance."

  
"It's alright," she replied, willing herself not to drop kick the little punk, "I'm sure you can't help it."

  
Pike grinned with unrestrained delight.

  
"I was never one for reunions, James," put in Sark. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

  
"Right. The Quill is an old relic from Milo Rambaldi. You know the guy, of course. It's currently being kept in the lower vaults of the central building of the CIA's L.A. branch." He virtually ignored Sark, staring happily at Sydney as he sat down, placing a briefcase on the tabletop. "Great place, L.A. Lovely weather, isn't it, Syd?"

  
She'd had enough. Sydney dropped her feet onto the floor, leaning across the table to glare icily, inches from Pike's face. "Bristow, Thorne, Sark, I don't care which," she intoned, "but call me Syd again and I'll show you just how much I take after my mother."  
Momentarily, Pike quailed, before recovering his persona and laughing aloud.

  
"She's quite serious, you know," Sark added.

  
Pike fell silent.

  
"We can get the Quill, of course. It'll take some time, but I have little doubt of success," Sark took control. "The question is: what do you have to offer in exchange?"

  
"The Medici has been gathering quite a reputation," Pike observed, leaning back in his chair. "You're the best. Simple fact. I'm here representing the Covenant."

  
Sydney bit down on her tongue.

  
"We've taken notice of you two. We're interested in hitting up the CIA a bit, and you're the obvious choice to do it. The original badass and the prodigy child - what's not to like?"

  
"Get to the point," Sark commanded, still leaning against the tabletop facing the opposing wall, hands in his pockets as he listened sedately.

"With Ms. Thorne's knowledge of the inner workings of the CIA, amazingly enough, of the L.A. branch specifically, you're a lock-in for the job. I'm authorized to meet any payment," he explained, "so name your price."

  
Sark reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a notepad with the exact numbers written bleakly across the empty paper - it added to the effect, a chilling provision that often jarred employers into accepting at face value, thinking the price to be inflexible and absolute. Before he could present the slip of paper, however, Pike returned his gaze to Sydney, smiling, and told her, "Irina says Hi."

  
The result was immediate, premeditated by Pike, wreaking havoc upon Sydney's tenuous calm and sending her emotions in a tailspin. She recoiled out of her seat like she's touched ice, scrabbling to her feet without thought. Sark instantly reached for her hand, but she dodged him, taking steady steps backward.

  
Pike continued grinning, vicious and victorious.

  
"I'm sorry," Sydney sputtered, staring into Sark's eyes. "Deal's off."

  
She wrenched open the scratched door leading into the back stairwell and slammed it shut behind her.

  
"Stay there." Sark snarled at Pike, and followed her out.

  
He caught up to her quickly. She stood indecisively at the foot of the first flight of stairs, anger and dismay written across her face.  
"We have to make this deal," he stated, stepping beside her. "You know that. Anything Irina wants from us she can have, until we destroy her. Those are the rules, darling."

  
"I'm not running her errands for her," she bit out. "It's bad enough I'm her victim, I won't be her damned pawn, too."

  
"Certainly not. But don't be a fool, either." 

  
She aimed a right hook toward his jaw, which he sidestepped, catching her by the waist and holding her there when she struggled.

  
"You're better than this, Sydney. But for now, at least, you have to play their games," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. 

  
Defeated, she accepted his logic, though she hated it bitterly, and nodded. Moving like a man handling poison, Sark cautiously led her back into the room.

  
"All made up, are we?" Pike called out as they re-entered. Without answering Sark took a seat opposite him. Sydney remained standing, prowling in menacing circles around them. Pike's two bodyguards stood by warily.

  
"Our work is expensive," Sark warned. "The bidding starts in the millions."

  
Pike nodded.

  
"47." Sydney said abruptly.

  
When they unanimously glanced at her with confusion, she glared at the both of them with an expression of oppressive authority. "47 million," she clarified. "A nice round number, wouldn't you say?"

  
Sark couldn't help it. He smirked.

  
"It's..." Pike coughed, tried again. "It's a bit high for a smash-and-grab job, don't you think?"

  
Syd shrugged, coming into her element. "Treason is a pricey thing to buy, Jimmy."

  
Pike continued his unblinking observation of Sydney, contemplating her every move, watching the set of her jaw and the challenge in her eyes. Nodding, he stood, stepping within inches of her.

  
"Don't be upset, sweetheart," Pike said to her.

  
Her breathing stilled.

  
"If you stayed with the CIA, they all would've died, anyway." He smiled in taunting comfort. "Cheer up, Julia. At least on this side you can just be yourself."

  
Then he made his mistake. Pike reached up and caressed her cheek. 

  
He'd expected retaliation from Bristow, a slap to the face, maybe a sucker-punch, but it would've been worth it. His back turned, Pike didn't see Sark move until he'd drawn out the Desert Eagle holstered at his shoulder, placing double shots in each of Pike's bodyguards before vaulting the table. Pike was reaching for his own handgun when Sark caught him brutally by the throat, spinning him and slamming Pike's face against the metal tabletop.

  
"I don't... like," Sark gritted slowly, seizing Pike's arm and twisting, "... people... touching..." He took a fistful of Pike's hair and cracked his forehead once more against the table. "... what's... mine."

  
He released Pike, watching without pity as the man slid to the floor, blood erupting from his nose and temple.

  
"We'll contact you when we have the Quill," Sark added, sheathing the pistol. He held out his hand expectantly to Sydney, who stood by, rightfully startled.

  
After a slight hesitation, she took it. Sark escorted her out of the warehouse without looking back.

  
-

  
Sydney wondered why Sark had the L.A. branch blueprints readily at hand. She decided not to ask.

  
"There's a weakness in the security system here," she illustrated with her finger along the map, "in the ventilation system. Clichéd, I know, but there you are. On the fourth floor, an air duct leads directly into the secondary mainframe. Sure, it's grated, and about 3 feet wide, but no sensory detectors or anything. I always thought that was a major goof on their part, but I was never exactly on good terms with Security Section, so..."

  
"How many guards?"

  
"Two in the room, six patrolling the hallway at all times. At least three technicians, too. Once we're inside, we disable the guards, access the mainframe and find out where the Quill is kept. Everything's kept in the vault in the basement, but that place is huge. We need a tag number if we want to find it before Christmas," Sydney explained rapidly.

  
"You do realize it has to be just the two of us. No other operatives," Sark noted.

  
The highway was eerily silent, undisturbed in the black late hours of night. They stood with the maps spread over the hood of the Mercedes, working under flashlight. Sydney frowned.

  
"Why? I mean, sure, it has to be a small team, to get in and out as quickly as possible, but I don't see why we can't use some of our operatives."

  
"Because," he pronounced, "I doubt you're willing to trust any of our employees not to kill any agents they come across."

  
Justifiably, Sydney was really getting sick of people throwing her off balance tonight.

  
  She cleared her throat unsteadily, crouching above the blueprints in sudden aversion to Sark. "We can enter the tunnels from the roof," she continued in a dry, uneven voice. "It'll be tricky getting down to the 4th floor, but we can climb. Once we get inside we have to move fast. After we get the Quill, our best option is to just run out the front door. It's the closest exit, and if we cause enough chaos, we can slip out pretty easily. Any questions?"

  
Sark stared at her closely, with the same vehement impassiveness she'd grown to dread. "Just one," he said. "When push comes to shove, who will it be? Me or Agent Weiss?"

  
She could have slapped him. "You," she snapped. "I've already chosen. It's you. Now stop being so damned insecure and get with the program."

  
"'Insecure'?" he echoed. "Excuse me for thinking rationally, but from past experience I'm not a firm believer in your ability to face the disapproval of your friends. I'm merely afraid you'll jump into your beloved Eric's arms while I get hauled back into jail."

  
"No," Sydney said fiercely. "You're just afraid of trusting someone."

  
She defiantly continued her perusal of the blueprints, pointedly ignoring Sark. He stood in an unaccustomed daze.

  
"That... episode, with Pike." he stated. "He was hurting you. I won't allow it."

  
"I'm not made of glass, Julian." 

  
"I wasn't referring to your vulnerabilities. I was referring to my own." 

  
The discussion was wordlessly declared over. Reluctantly, Sydney smiled.

  
-

  
"Lovely view."

  
She kicked him.

  
"You're the one who insisted on going in front. Don't begrudge me my limited delights."

  
"Do you always talk this much while crawling through a ventilation system?"

  
"Yes, but it's usually more pathetic. Usually I'm alone."

  
She cleared a spider web out of the way.

  
"Besides, if you don't like my appreciation, you shouldn't have worn those pants," he persisted.

  
"You know, I studied these tunnel arrangements a lot closer than you did. I could knock you out and leave you to die. Think about it."

  
"Death threats are very stimulating, darling."

  
"Shut up. The grate's up ahead," she said, a touch regretfully.

  
Sydney peered through the metal bars, limiting her breath. Below, the expected pair of guards and the trio of technicians milled around the cramped room, computer consoles spanned across three of the four walls. She retrieved the vial of acid from her pocket.

  
"Not a very safe place to keep it," Sark whispered from behind.

  
Sydney resisted chucking the opened vial over her shoulder.

  
She applied the chemicals to the rim of the metal grate, the savorless hissing noise masked by the sweep of chill air running past them into the room. If nothing else, the first stage of the mission had been at a constant 72°.

  
"Ready?" she said, barely audibly. Sark gripped her feet carefully, and she curled her fingers around the slim bars.

  
He gave her a hearty shove out the air duct. 

  
The grate scraped, then finally tore free, weakened by the acid. It came away with the force of the push, sending Sydney tumbling to the floor. Before the inhabitants could react to the intrusion, Sark slid halfway into the room, firing four successive tranquilizer darts. Sydney dropped the last one with a tactless heel to his stomach.

  
"There comes a point when this is just too easy," Sark noted, dropping onto the floor.

  
Sydney didn't bother answering, but moved quickly over to the main server and typed furiously through the security points. Sark briskly shrugged out of his leather Kevlar-lined jacket, turned the material inside out before putting it back on. On the reverse side it was a tailored, if slightly wrinkled, business coat. He slipped a pre-tied necktie over his neck and clipped a forged ID card to his front pocket. 

  
"Accessing inventory archive," Sydney said absently, pausing briefly to allow Sark to remove her own jacket, reverse it to the same affect, and unpin her curled red hair.

  
"File number 803, drawer 2, row H, vault A," she announced, closing out the system. 

  
Sark handed her the ID card, which read 'NSC Visitor'.

  
"Too easy," she agreed, wrenching open the door.

  
-

  
"The security team at the level 4 checkpoint didn't meet up with their trade-off," Dixon explained, herding his operatives out of the conference room. "When the relief team moved in, all workers in the secondary security room were down. The server showed signs of a break-in. They've found no traces of the assailants or even if they're still in the building."

  
A security specialist met them as they trooped down the hall, pulling with him a cart of weaponry worth millions on the black market. Eric accepted an assault rifle, unlocking the trigger guard as he listened carelessly.

  
"We have several operatives guarding the doors to the vault. If the thieves are still in here, that's where they're headed," Dixon said with surety, strapping on a bulletproof vest over his suit.

  
There was little question passed between them. Army-trained desk jocks just wouldn't hold up against freelance spies. They were needed to save the day.

  
Vaughn grabbed Lauren's arm. "Stay here," he insisted.

  
She wasn't field rated. She'd never even fired a gun. Lauren considered arguing, but held her tongue. She watched warily as Eric pumped the rifle's chamber with something bordering gleeful desperation.

  
Nervous, Marshal took a tranq pistol. "You'll need a tech guy," he mumbled.

  
"Let's move," Dixon commanded.

  
-  
Hand in hand, Sark and Sydney stepped unhindered off the elevator. The guard at the checkpoint glanced at their IDs and waved them past.

  
"Last time I walked through here, I was in handcuffs," Sark observed quietly.

  
"I stopped by here on the way to my Dad's funeral to pick up his office effects," Sydney replied. "You've got nothing on me."

  
They headed straight for the vault doors.

  
"Excuse me, but there's been a security breach. If you could please go back to the -" recited one of the two CIA officers, before Sydney nimbly cracked their heads together.

  
"And here I thought that only happened on television," Sark commented, taking out a set of tweezers and going to work on the keypad posted beside the metal door.

  
It soon slid open with a familiar hiss. They stepped over the guards and cautiously drew their firearms.

  
-

  
"Has anyone been past here in the last 5 minutes?" Dixon barked to the checkpoint guard, storming down the corridor.

  
"Just two NSC agents: a blonde guy and a cute redhead. I'd never seen them before, but they seemed safe." 

  
"Or not," Eric said grimly, catching sight of the unconscious guards and the cannibalized keypad.

  
"Who do you think it is?" Marshal squeaked from behind.

  
"I'd hazard to guess Sark," Vaughn answered, furious.

  
Dixon turned to the terrified guard. "Contact your commander. Order a perimeter around the building. I want him to keep all his men away, understand? There are at least two highly trained assailants in the main vault. No one gets in or out without my say-so. Dismissed." He glanced at Eric, who had already moved to the door and was re-wiring the keypad. "If it's Sydney," he reminded them - Marshal, Vaughn, especially Eric - "if it is Sydney, remember that she's now an enemy of the United States. You have orders to shoot if she makes a move. Do you understand me?"

  
"Clear as day," Eric snarled, punching in the correct code. Again, the door slid open.

  
-

  
The vault was located underground, spanning half a mile beneath the city. A narrow metal staircase led down into the room, where over three dozen rows of identical, towering steel filing cabinets formed duplicate hallways. It was shadowy, and cold, lit dimly by low-grade overhead lights.

  
The rows were unmarked.

  
"Whoever designed this filing system," Sark growled, "should be publicly flogged."

  
"Or awarded with a medal. I'd say he did a damned good job, if we can't find what we're trying to steal," Sydney contradicted.

  
He wished she would stop being so logical. That was his shtick, frankly.

  
"Split up. I'll go right, you go left. We meet back in 7 minutes. Keep quiet," he instructed quickly, "but call out if you need me. I'm sure there's one hell of an echo in here.  I'll find you if you're in trouble."

  
"And vice versa," Sydney shot back gamely, jogging off down the deserted hallway formed by endless queues of locket holding closets.

  
Sark was moving the opposite way when he heard the unmistakable whisper of the heavy door sliding open, followed by a procession of footsteps clanging onto the wire-mesh catwalk. He turned quickly, catching sight of Eric Weiss, who scanned the chamber bellow.

  
Training told him to shoot the bastard in the skull.  The Glock 18. had a range of at least 165ft. Instead Sark dove inelegantly onto the floor, sliding against the steel cabinets, and hid in the shadows. Admitted or not, he loved Sydney too fiercely to murder her best friend.

  
Somewhere, on the other side of the vault, a safety clip unlocked.

  
"There's someone here!" Weiss shouted, charging down the stairwell, closely followed by Former Sydney-Sidekick Marcus Dixon, Agent Michael Doormat, and - dear lord, Flinkman. Sark hastily began crawling degradingly along the makeshift hallway, checking the filing tags periodically.

  
"Weiss, Marshal, you go left," he heard Dixon command. "Vaughn, right. You're with me. Spread out, meet in the middle. They're trapped in here."

  
Any other marvelous observations, Director Obvious? Sark thought cynically, then wondered when working with Sydney had reduced him to crafting mute luke-warm zingers. He moved upward into a crouch to check another tag - 'A., H., #623'.

  
Annoyed with the wholly unethical filing system, Sark moved on his knees down the corridor. At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, he flung himself back down against the foot of the boxes, pressed into shadow. Dixon scanned the hallway swiftly before moving on.

  
Vaughn, of course, would be following soon, but Sark had little to no faith in the man's abilities. He stood freely as Dixon disappeared, walking hastily along the safes until he found the correct vault. It was sectioned into three drawers, each with ridiculously complex locking mechanisms.

  
Sark pried open the keypad and cut the red wire. The lock instantly deactivated.

  
"Have a little imagination," he grunted, seizing the Quill, encased in a glass box, and pocketing it.

  
In a moment, he noticed Michael Vaughn holding a gun in his face.

  
"Drop it, Sark," he said angrily. "Where's Sydney?"

  
"Off alone somewhere, I should imagine, wondering which formerly-dead relative must have brainwashed her into dating you," he answered indifferently.

  
"Drop the weapon," barked Vaughn, and Sark complied - arrogant jackass or not, he wasn't stupid.

  
"Was it really worth it?" Vaughn asked harshly, holding the Beretta closer to Sark's forehead than strictly necessary. "Stealing Sydney, playing with her head, making her believe she actually likes you? Making her betray the people she loves? Is it really worth the death sentence, Sark? Are you happy?"

  
"My girlfriend's trained in Krav Magna," Sark answered irreverently, "Of course I'm happy."

  
Without consideration Vaughn moved to pistol-whip the assassin across the face. Anticipating, reveling in the action, Sark dodged smoothly, seizing the man's arm and slamming his open palm into Vaughn's chin. Vaughn's head snapped back, releasing the Beretta, and tumbled sideways.

  
"Freeze!" shouted a second voice, and Dixon chose to put in an appearance, at the other end of the hall.

  
Sark fired three shots into the Director's chest. The bulletproof-vest saved his life, but not his consciousness. Dixon hit the wall and slid.

  
"Agent Weiss I let live because he seems the more able of the CIA's operatives. But I don't particularly like you," Sark warned as Vaughn made a lunge for his dropped Glock.

  
Truthfully, he had no fucking idea what to do with Agent Vaughn. Knock him out, naturally, but Weiss and Flinkman (though he didn't really count) had already been alerted to Sark's presence. For all he knew, they could have captured Sydney by now.

  
"Where's Sydney?" Weiss demanded, rounding the corner.

  
Well, there goes that theory.

  
Sark immediately leveled the Beretta to Vaughn's ear in response to the SIG SG pointed at him by Eric Weiss. A standoff.

  
Whatever the outcome, Sydney was going to be pissed.

  
"What is your collective obsession with the whereabouts of Sydney Bristow? She's a grown woman, you know, perfectly capable of raising hell all by herself," he responded affably.

  
"I should shoot you right now," Eric said slowly. 

  
"Yes," Sark agreed, "but then who would be around to make you feel unworthy?"

  
This was a dangerous situation, despite Sark's flippant demeanor. He could readily end up with a 30-round magazine in his chest. Muscles tire. Fingers waver. Michael Vaughn wouldn't be held prisoner for long.

  
Eric switched on the laser sight of his rifle; a red dot appeared on Sark's throat. "Where is she?" he repeated.

  
"I'm up here."

  
The warring members of the Sydney-Loves-Me-Better club turned their eyes upward, to where she stood atop the row of steel holding boxes. The pistol in her hand was aimed straight at Eric's unprotected torso.

  
"You hurt Sark, and believe me, I will pull this trigger," Sydney said steadily.

  
Sark, her boyfriend, was threatening to shoot Vaughn, her former lover.  Eric, her would-be hunny and best friend (since the death of Non-Clone Francie), was holding up Sark. Sydney, beloved by all, was aiming her gun at Eric.

  
Sydney absently scheduled a mental breakdown for sometime next week.

  
Eric returned his gaze determinedly to Sark, holding the rifle tightly as if daring him to move. Vaughn, for his own part, considered risking another lunge for the Glock, but Sark kicked it away.

  
"What are you doing, Syd?" Eric questioned, his voice low and steady. "Why like this? We could have protected you. You didn't have to go with him. Why?"

  
When no answer came, he dared a look over to her. Those big brown eyes he'd gotten to memorize were now filled with regretful tears. "I didn't have a choice," she explained tiredly.

  
After a brief hesitation, Eric threw away the SIG, lifting his hands in submission. He stared at Sydney with a mixture of forgiveness and disappointment.

  
She stepped off the side of the security boxes, Sark half-catching her as she dropped lightly to the ground. 

  
She always landed on her feet.

  
"Where's Marshal?" Vaughn said suddenly.

  
"Row C. I surprised him and he accidentally shot himself with the tranq. He'll be out for a couple of hours." Sark was now pulling her insistently away, more worried about their escape than a grand scene between former friends. "I'm sorry, Eric," she said hastily. "I really am."

  
He nodded, once, but she was already gone.

  
-

  
Sark offered to go alone, to save her the torment, but she was realistic. Pike had demanded her presence and she wouldn't risk the job against it.

  
"That was quick," Pike commented as he joined their table. Roadside cafes were ideal for these meetings - impersonal, unobstructed, isolated while surrounded by people. Sark slid the case across to him.

  
Their transactions were quick and to the point; 47 million scattered into 14 different accounts across the continent. When business concluded, minutes before dessert arrived, Pike reverted to his old tricks.

  
"It was a pleasure working with you again," he voiced, rising to shake hands with Sark. He offered his hand to Sydney, but withdrew when he perceived the fork she gripped firmly, smiling a bizarre grin. 

  
"Anything I should pass on to Irina?" he asked, resorting to the same foul he'd played at their first meeting.

  
"Sure," Sydney said breezily, "Tell her to hire a new middle man. Her current one is as good as dead."

  
"She's really something, isn't she?" Pike told Sark, unaffected, admiring. "I'd hold on tight if I were you."

  
Sark didn't feel the need to comment, her nails digging into his knee unknowingly. Only when Pike left did he dare speak.

  
"He's nothing, Sydney; Just a puppet on a string," he murmured confidently. "He's not worth your notice."

  
She held a strange expression, one Sark had seen fleeting glimpses of in the past, usually before she royally screwed him over to gain possession of the prize. It was something he'd previously feared, something he'd barely failed to define until now.

  
"Mom's been pulling the same run-around for three years," Sydney pronounced. "I've had enough. I'm going to follow my own damned rules."

  
Sark was witnessing the prophecy's heroine in action. She'd realized a flaw in Irina's plan: according to Rambaldi, Sydney was invincible.

  
-


	21. Digging Graves

**Author's Note** : Sorry (as always) for the delay. I've made it my goal now to update faster from here on out. Then again, my new year's resolution was to be less annoying and paranoid, so…

  Anyway. Thanks of course to all the lovely people who took time to voice (read : type) their comments/suggestions/Gypsy curses. In my opinion, reviewers are some of the very finest of our society, right behind whoever makes those little plastic thingys on the end of shoelaces. They have an amusing name for those things but I currently forget what it is.

  This, and now all chapters preceding this (yes, all of them!) were kindly beta-ed by Becca. Were she beta-ing this note beforehand, she probably would have told me "beta-ing" isn't a word, so you get some idea what she has to deal with. Thank you most sincerely, Bec.

  Cheers,

Lauren 

-  
**Part 21 : Digging Graves**  
-

"I suggest a bazooka at very short range."

  
He stopped pacing, glancing over his shoulder at her with a mixture of irritation and unwanted amusement.

  
"I hear the Russians are perfecting a contained-perimeter hand grenade. Might be fun," she added, baiting him.

  
"I'd be more than willing to murder Irina with nothing other than a paperclip and some imagination, Sydney. What we're lacking is the opportunity," he said shortly. When she shrugged indifferently he fell back on his pacing.

  
"As detestable as it is, our best option is to follow our original plan," Sark stated wearily, stopping in front of the window and staring down at the city far below.

  
"It's not really our plan, per se. We're more following a predetermined course of action."

  
"Technicality," he replied airily. "Makes no difference."  
  
"So we wait," Sydney said coldly.  
  
"For now," he answered, though it hadn't been a question.  
  
Tonight they were in Wexford, on the eastern coast of Ireland. Tomorrow they'd jump to Belfast, then Plymouth, forever two steps planned beforehand with no end in sight. The hotel suite was warm, muted, almost lethargic in tone. Sydney leaned with her back against the wall, arms crossed and staring at Sark, who stood eclipsing the clear afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.  
  
Sark felt her gaze, saw her guarded form reflected in the glass. "They'll pay," he said definitely. He carefully kept his back to Sydney. "They'll pay for hurting you. They'll go screaming to their graves by the time I'm done with them."

  
Sydney hesitated, frowned slightly as she processed this statement, took in the full weight of his commitment and realized Sark's anger was more cherished than any caress Vaughn had ever given her.

  
"What about the people who hurt you?" she asked quietly.

  
He turned in surprise, confusion, observing her critically.

  
"23 feet, 9 inches. Chalk marble, gilded mahogany doors," she told him. "Ockley kept you in there for four months."  
  
"Insignificant," he contradicted. "You were in the same room for almost seven months. My stay was rather relaxing compared to yours."  
  
"My dad had me programmed when I was six years old," Sydney snapped, "I'm used to it by now. I have bigger fish to fry, sweetie. But you?" She shook her head darkly. "I don't like people touching what's mine, either."  
  
"This isn't about me, Sydney. Ockley's the least of our troubles. We can't afford to go after him any more than we can Irina," he said, moving within inches of her.  
  
"He isn't on the Covenant payroll," Sydney said abruptly. "He was Callaghan's lackey. No official connection with the Covenant. To everybody else he's just a sociopath with a medical license."  
  
Sark didn't respond at first, simply watching her intently with a masked expression of awe. "You're indescribably good at this," he said aloud.  
  
"If you could maybe blink sometime soon, that'd be great," Sydney urged, unnerved.  
  
Swiftly, Sark hooked his foot behind her ankle and swept her legs out from under her. Sydney slid awkwardly into the wall and onto the floor, instinctively cushioning her fall with her elbows before Sark dropped ontop of her, crushing her beneath him.  
  
"_What the fu_-" she yelled, only to be cut off by Sark pushing his tongue down her throat.  
  
She'd long ago given up trying to map out his rapidly shifting moods - he switched between tenderness and violence with startling quickness, between anger and amusement without warning. Sydney was too disoriented to move, let alone respond, as his hands slid under her shirt with familiarity.  
  
She shrieked with laughter and disbelief as he dropped all pretense and mercilessly began tickling her ribs.  
  
Unpredictable, sure. He liked keeping her on her toes.  
  
-  
  
The tires skidded against the curb. He slowly switched off the engine, taking a moment to collect himself.  
  


She attempted to smile, shooting him a sideways glance. "All we've been through, and you still can't parallel park?" she teased lightly.  
  


"Can you hear it?" Sark whispered.  
  
Sydney angled her head toward the open passenger-side window, listening apprehensively for the sound.  
  
Out of sight, she heard the ocean.  
  
Keeping her breath even, Sydney briskly unclasped her seatbelt and stepped out the Mercedes. Forcing his composure, Sark did the same, retrieving the heavy leather briefcase from the backseat before taking her hand. Together they walked across the empty city street toward the 9-floor office building, something that had become a permanent fixture in their suppressed nightmares.  
  
Sark hesitated when his hand touched the glass front door.  
  
"This plan is either revolutionary or pure suicide," he said.  
  
"I deflect all blame on lack of time and proper funding," she responded, unwilling to drop her impassive facade.  
  
"There are dozens of people in there," he remarked, "People with families and friends and lives wholly unaffiliated with their choice of employer."  
  
Her eyes flashed angrily, something personal experience had taught Sark to dread. "Tell me they couldn't hear the screaming through the walls," she said in a grim monotone.  
  
Sark nodded, once, and without pity. He tugged open the door and followed her inside.  
  
The lobby was clean and smooth, comfortable but sterile, exactly fitted to a medical office. The clerk posted at the desk looked up from his computer, quickly ushering to his feet.  
  
"Good morning. Do you have an appointment?" he asked mechanically.  
  
"No. We're a walk-in," Sydney answered, calmly drawing the UZI from her overcoat and punching 5 of the 32 round magazine into the secretary's chest.  
  
Using his own submachine gun, his a '74 Skorpion, Sark took out the bank of security cameras dotting the ceiling.  
  
Alerted by the indescribable amount of noise caused by the weaponry, a trio of security guards can rushing from the lounge located behind the desk. Shoulder to shoulder, Sydney and Sark downed them within seconds, their firearms dealing a combined rate of 1850 bullets per round.  
  
She watched as they folded over onto the ground. Two years, a month, hell, a week ago, Sydney would have felt the guilt like a knife to the chest. But she'd been pushed too far.  
  
  Efficiently ejecting the empty clip onto the floor, Sydney snatched a fresh magazine of ammunition from the supply strapped to Sark's chest, bandolier-style. Without comment he shouldered the briefcase, drawing a second gun with his free hand.  
  
  "Watch behind us," Sark suggested, flicking off the Glock's safety.  
  
  She swiveled compliantly, slamming her back against Sark. Together they walked, Sydney facing backwards, down the empty corridor leading to the elevators. The entire floor echoed with the sound of gunplay and the stench of fresh blood.  
  
  Sydney heard a door screech from behind her. Ignoring her instincts, she remained facing the way they had come, clenching her jaw when she felt Sark jolt against her. He fired a short burst of bullets, then continued guiding her onward.  
  
  In passing she saw the bloodied corpse of a janitor still twitching in the partially-open doorway of the cleaning closet.  
  
"Ignore it," Sark told her quietly, "Put it out of your mind. Concentrate on finding the mark and getting out alive."  
  
  They reached the elevators. The door slid open with a _ding_.  
  
  "Relax for a moment," he continued as the compartment began ascending. "Save your energy."  
  
  Sydney smiled wistfully, swiping at the blood spattered on his face. "You've done this before, I take it."  
  
  "Many times." He holstered the Glock, again taking hold of her hand.  
  
  Unable to contain it, she laughed.   
  
  "You always hold my hand," she explained when he frowned in question. "You always call me Darling and you always hold my hand. You, Mr. Sark," she said, "are absurdly romantic."  
  
  He grinned, almost sadly. "This is real, Sydney."  
  
  "I know," she said lightly, "but you told me not to think about it."  
  
  The dial posted above the elevator door moved to 7. Unanimously the pair stepped to opposite sides of the compartment, out of view from the hall as the door slid open with a repeated chime.  
  
  Immediately the guards waiting outside opened fire; Sark could feel the air disturbance against his face as bullets hissed by and struck the back wall. He winked at her from across the doorway.  
  
  Sydney reached around the corner and tossed a time-rigged grenade at their feet.  
  
  When the flames had died down and the plaster shrapnel settled beside the bodies, they stepped out of the elevator and strode unchallenged down the hall.  
  
  Together they proved despicably adept at massacre.  
  
  Another squad of armed guards spilled out of the emergency stairwell at the end of the familiar darkly-lit hallway. Sydney held down the trigger on the UZI, falling the men with unflinching butchery, Sark at her side sniping away at any survivors with his more-accurate Glock.  
  
  Not even Rambaldi had seen this coming.  
  
  Gripping the double handle of the weapon, Sydney's knuckles had gone white. She loosened her hold on the UZI, flexing each hand by turns and grimacing.  
  
  "If I recall, the laboratory's the last room at the end of the hall," she announced. She'd already fought her way out of this place once before.  
  
  "There are more coming," Sark warned, crouching down to unsling the briefcase he'd insisted on bringing. Indeed, the sound of heavy footsteps were heard pounding toward them from the open stairwell.  
  
  Sydney reluctantly lifted the UZI once more, her arms stiff from maintaining the needed stance. Sark began removing the many pieces kept in the briefcase, steadily assembling the OICW assault weapon kept inside, a rifle/shotgun hybrid capable of not only killing an opponent, but also knocking the body a solid six feet backwards. It was a military-grade weapon not even available for civilian use. It was also grotesquely expensive.  
  
  "You and you're toys," Sydney scolded him, and charged down the corridor.  
  
  Instantly she was met by a trio of guards, stepping onto the landing with more men thundering up from below. Dodging, she decked the first with the butt of the UZI and struck the second with a jacknife kick to the throat. On the third, before he could be his rifle to good use, she twirled the UZI like a baton, spinning sideways to touch a blow just below the man's ear. He instantly followed his to companions onto the floor.  
  
  "Use the business end of that thing!" Sark yelled, shooting past her to eliminate the second wave of guards arriving behind her.

  It was over pitifully fast. With the tactical advantage and an unreasonable ammount of ammunition, the two freelance operatives defeated the twelve-man strike team without pause. Within seconds both Sydney and Sark were splashed in blood that was not their own.  
  
  The haunting laboratory was entranced by two locked double doors. Sydney took a step back and viciously nailed the handle with her heel, snapping the flimsy latch in two. The doors swung open, a blast of sickly cold air sweeping forth.  
  
  As remembered, there was a tiny port window cut into the wall, any sunlight overwhelmed by the harsh electric light of the overhead lamps. Nothing from their memories had been changed – all was white, everything but the polished metal of the operating table with leather bindings at strategic placements, and the silver instruments posted on the tray in one corner.  
  
  Sydney let out a shuddering breath, stepping into the room. She felt rather than saw Sark come to stand beside her, reaching robotically for her hand.  Four months or seven, it made no difference; Both had the same nauseating memories of bright lights before impenetrable darkness, of the cool steel of the blade before the burning feel of blood, of the sound of a purring voice and the methodical coolness of the ocean. Of the stark black-and-white picture hanging irregularly on the opposite wall.  
  
  "He's not here," Sydney said.  
  
  As if on cue, Sark turned and bolted from the room, Sydney at his heels. With blind intuition he ran back toward the stairwell, vaulting over bodies, over railings, heedless of noise. Down, down, 3 floors below them, a white-clad figure scurried away. High on adrenaline and rage, Sark sped after him, Sydney trailing behind. She reached over and fired several rounds downward; The bullets sizzled at Ockley, striking sparks off the metal railing inches from his hand.  
  
  The distance closing, Ockley turned and wrenched open the door onto the 5th floor. Within moments the two followed him inside.  
  
  The 5th level had a similar layout to the 8th, a long, straight corridor, the elevators at one end, the emergency stairwell at the other. Six doors on each side lined the hall.  
  
  "Where'd the little bastard go?" Sydney grunted, breathing heavily through her nose, as she arrived behind Sark. Spanning before them was a anti-climactically empty hallway.  
  
  "To hell, in a minute," Sark answered shortly, shouldering open the first door. The office inside was unoccupied.  
  
  They took turns breaking through doors in as destructive a manner as possible, a testament to their rapidly fraying patience. Room after room, quaint, innocent offices with desks and plotted plants, or small chambers with x-ray machines and jars of lollipops resting on the examination table. Ockley operated under the careful disguise of a private medical practice.   
  
  They found him seated nervously in the guest lounge, running his fingers erratically through thinning hair. Furnishing the room were soft leather couches and dark wood tables. A crescent window dwarfed the opposing wall. With practiced agreement Sydney stood in the doorway, her firearm held ready, as Sark entered the room aiming his assault rifle at the doctor.  
  
  "I suggest you stay completely still," Sark said in that lilting, taunting tone of his, "I'm afraid I'm a bit trigger-happy, you see."  
  
  "Mr. Sark," Ockley said, strained. "Ms. Thorne. My two favorite projects."  
  
  "A failure, as it were. You can see, your work didn't take," Sark answered, stepping closer. At this range, Ockley would feel the full impact of the 12mm. buckshot.  
  
  Ockley failed to begin groveling for his life, and that was when Sydney knew that something was Very Wrong.  
  
  "Julian, _shoot him now_," she called urgently. Her voice died away when she felt the barrel of a rifle against her spine.  
  
  "Irina told me you might by paying a visit," Ockley explained. "Nothing but the best security when my former patients are in town."  
  
  A second team of guards crowded the doorway, and this time, the Medici would not win.   
  
  "Drop the weapons," the leader ordered, masked by a bulletproof visor.  
  
  Sydney dropped the UZI and held her hands aloft, coming cautiously over to Sark. He barely noticed when she bumped against his shoulder, he glared so intently at Ockley. Mr. Sark, she realized, was sorely tempted to blast the son of a bitch, anyway.  
  
  She put a hand firmly on the OICW rifle, pushing it aside. "We found the mark," she murmured, "now let's concentrate on getting out alive."  
  
  Sark finally tore his eyes away from Ockley, frowning down at her with a foreign expression.  
    
  "Drop the weapon!" barked the commando again.  
  
  Sark held her gaze, as if oblivious to the world.  
  
  "I suggest you listen to him, Mr. Sark. I expect more of you than to see you die in vain," Ockley grated.  
  
  Deliberately, Sydney sprang forward, slamming against Sark and propelling them toward the window. Surprised bullets spit out around them as they crashed through the glass in a tangle of limbs.  
  
  Sark wound his arms around her waist, tucked her head against his chest, and now they were flying, now falling, five levels up, glass shards sparkling around them, bullets above, concrete below, and nothingness in between. With a jerk of her arm the spring-loaded dagger sheathed on her wrist sprang out, Sydney catching it deftly while she wrangled her body sideways.  
  
  "This is absurd," Sark had the audacity to complain as she stabbed the utility knife into the smooth white marble racing beside them. The knife glanced off the stone, once, twice, then caught in a groove between blocks, less than thirty feet from the ground.  
  
  Momentarily the wrenched to a halt, the knife scraping a shallow cut through the marble. Inevitably the steel blade snapped.  
  
  They hit the concrete, hard.  
  
  3, 4, 5, - 5 little monkeys, all in a row – Ockley's security team leaned out the smashed window and opened fire.  
  
  "You know, this really wasn't a wise career move for me," Sydney yelled, rolling to her feet and scrambling for cover.  
  
  They'd landed behind the building, in the perpetual alleys behind the skyscrapers. Unfit for a mad dash through the half-mile stretch of pavement with gunfire dancing around them, Sark tugged her hastily behind a dumpster. The unceasing pound of buckshot punching into the metal blocking their view told them to sit tight.  
  
"You just had to drop your gun," Sark muttered petulantly, to which she righteously slapped him. Realistically, though, she took stock of their weaponry and found they had only Sark's uber-rifle, his Glock, and the vaguely sharp hilt of Sydney's utility knife.  
  
She whistled. "Yeah. We're screwed," she agreed.  
  
To punctuate her point, another round of gunfire hailed against the dumpster.  
  
"We have to move," he decided unnecessarily, "They'll be coming for us in a minute. Make a run for it?"  
  
"OK," she said gamely, "You go first."  
  
He grinned wryly and didn't move.  
  
Sydney rose to a crouch, scanning their surroundings. "There," she announced, pointing.  
  
Sark looked, and Sark recoiled. Twelve feet away was a manhole leading into the sewer system.  
  
"I think I'll just walk down the alley, thanks," he grunted.  
  
Sydney didn't bother listening. She testingly gripped the side of the dumpster and gave it a nudge. With a screech, it rolled forward. Sighing, he rose to help her.  
  
Ever-present gunfire raining down toward them, Sydney and Sark wheeled the dumpster slowly toward the manhole. To test his patience, one wheel squealed incessantly.  
  
Feeling the grave indignity of it all, Sark pried open the grate and descended into the sewer. Sydney sealed the lid behind them.  
  
"What's that smell?" he grimaced.  
  
For the second time in as many minutes, Sydney slapped him. "We're in the sewer. Dumbass."  
  
"Ahh, true love. Sweet endearments, crass name-calling, it makes no difference," he observed sarcastically.

  
Forcing herself not to consider what was caught around her ankle, Sydney led the way, trudging through the black tunnel systems with only Sark's watchlight as illumination.  
  
  "There's an opening over there," he said hopefully.  
  
"We're too close," she said wearily, "We have to get as far away as possible from the building. If we go up through there, we'll just be at a bit farther range than before. The term sitting duck comes to mind."  
  
  "All right, so, what? We just keep walking?" he balked.

  
  "You _really_ hate getting your clothes dirty, do you?" she snorted, reaching into her coatpocket and taking out a cellphone.  
  
  "That's no use," Sark grunted, "None of our operatives know where we are. They're nowhere close and I certainly didn't trust them with our mission semantics."  
  
  "I'm calling for directions," she answered simply, punching a button on her speed-dial. She silenced Sark's questions with a wave of her hand. "It's me," she said into the phone.  
  
-  
  
  


  Suffice to say his work had lost it's appeal. Day after day, 12 hour shifts, coasting on caffeine and boredom, Eric schlepped through his paperwork, went on routine missions that had lost their thrill, sat in Barnett's office and told her repeatedly that he was just dandy.  
  
  He went through aspirin like it was candy.  
  
  Vaughn noticed, of course, invited him to hockey games, to dinner at their house, offered him a place on the couch and an ear to talk to, but Eric retreated home at night and rarely answered the phone. Vaughn was thankful, though shocked at first, that Eric had erased Sydney's voice from the answering machine. Calls were no longer left for "Syd or Weiss"; You were merely instructed to talk after the sound of the beep.  
  
  "Lighting play Friday, ESPN2. Lecavalier's back off his leg injury. Lauren's out of town, we could watch it at my place," Mike was saying, leaning against Eric's desk.  
  
  Eric glanced momentarily up from the endless report on his computer screen, blinked once, then returned to reading without comment nor expression.  
  
  "C'mon, Eric," Vaughn urged, "You gotta get over this. She's gone,"  
  
  Any hopes Vaughn had of gaining a reply were negated by the ring of Eric's cellphone. Clearly irritated, he dug it out from under a pile of half-finished paperwork and answered with a growl.  
  
  A short reply from the caller sent Eric jerking back in his seat, his breath quickening as he vainly strove to remain calm. "Syd - where are you?" he croaked.   
  
  "What?" Vaughn asked. "Weiss, who is it?"  
  
  "I'm in the Scarborough sewer system," Sydney said carefully, "I'm a bit lost."  
  
  "Syd, wait – shit, what's going on?" Eric said frantically, turning in a circle to watch for anyone listening in.  
  
  "Syd? Is that Sydney?" Vaughn demanded, and Eric smacked him irreverently on the shoulder to be quiet.  
  
  "Deep breaths, Eric. I'm alright," she hesitated before adding, "Julian's here with me."  
  
  "Hello, Agent Weiss," sang a distance voice over the phone.  
  
  Eric sighed, turning toward his computer. "What do you need?" he asked stiffly.  
  
  "Directions. We're just north of the sewer entrance behind the Ockley Private and Family Medical facility. We need to get to an exit at least two miles south. Somewhere hidden."  
  
  "What are you doing?" Vaughn insisted as Eric closed out his report windows and opened the satelite mapping program.  
  
  "Hang on a minute," he told Sydney, "I'm looking now."   
  
  Frenetically scrolling through read-outs, Eric found the coordinates within minutes. "OK, you listening? From the point you entered from, you're gonna want to go straight down the south tunnel for 9 kilometers, then take a left east, then south again. You'll pass four manholes on the last tunnel. Go up the fourth, it'll land you right behind a car garage. I checked, it closed for the day 2 hours ago."  
  
  Confused, Vaughn listened intently. He knew better than to interrupt.  
  
  "You're my knight, Eric," Sydney whispered, drawing a involuntary smile. Eric stood, turning his back to Vaughn.  
  
  "Syd?" he said quietly.  
  
  "Yeah?"  
  
  He released a shuddering breath. "How's he treating you?"  
  
  Across the line, Sydney laughed. "He persists in holding my hand at all times."  
  
  "He damn well better," he replied bluntly. "I don't suppose you can tell me why your in the sewer?"  
  
  "Another time, maybe. I have to go."  
  
  He nodded, entirely to himself as she couldn't see him. "I'm glad you called me," he admitted. "Whenever you need me. Always call."  
  
  Momentary silence.  
  
  "I will."  
  
  Almost unwillingly, Eric removed the phone from his ear and pressed 'End'. After collecting himself, he turned back to Vaughn.  
  
  "What're you doing?" Eric echoed, frowning.  
  
  Startled, Vaughn closed out the program he had opened. "Cleaning out your cache," he said quickly. "That was Sydney, right? I'm covering your tracks," he explained. "What'd she say?"  
  
  "Nothing," Eric answered truthfully, sinking back into his chair. "She was in a sewer, Sark has a hand-holding fetish, and I'm her knight in shining armor," he said. "Nothing."  
  
-  
  
  "There's a reason I don't make friends," Sark commented. "It only leads to guilt."  
  
  "Really?" Sydney marveled sarcastically, "I thought you just didn't have the knack for it."  
  
  They trekked through the tunnels, following Eric's directions. Sark was in a difficult mood, alternately quarreling and bantering with her, while Sydney's mind was otherwise occupied with guilt-ridden memories of Eric Weiss.  
  
  "He forgives you, you know," Sark said suddenly. "They all do. You're too damned likeable, darling."  
  
  "I'll work on that," she said easily, passing the third overhead grate. "Here it is."  
  
  Ladies first, Sydney climbed the short metal ladder up to the grate, Sark close behind. With some difficulty she shoved it open.  
  
  Faded evening sunlight shot down into the tunnel, blinding from hours spent in blackness. Squinting, Sydney grabbed the rim of the hole and began pulling herself up. Directly she became aware of the multiple gun barrels held inches from her head.  
  
  "Follow the leader," Ockley called from above.  
  
  


  From below Sydney, Sark observed the turn of events with a sort of detached desolation. Partially blocking the grate, Sydney glanced down to meet his gaze, the same look of uncomprehending horror mirrored in her eyes.  
  
  "Come up slowly," instructed one of Ockley's men, "Arms where I can see them."  
  
  Sydney swung her gaze back upward, counting the opponents. She clenched her jaw and Sark knew.  
  
  "Darling, no!" he cried as her heel lashed down and collided with his face, knocking him off the ladder.  
  
  


  "Get out of here!" she screamed at him, pushing herself up out of the tunnel, into the waiting arms of Ockley's men. Sark had barely scrambled back to his feet, blood oozing from the bruise forming on his cheek, when Sydney kicked the grate shut. Following came the sound of the emergency latch being moved into place.   
  
  The sunlight instantly cut out, leaving Sark bathed in grey darkness. He immediately scaled the ladder, pushing against the grate in an effort he knew to be futile.  
  
  Sydney had been captured.  
  
-  
  
  It'd been two days since he had talked to her. Two days of wondering, half-expecting another call, two days of worsening insomnia. Eric considered moving his belongings out of the den and into the bedroom, Sydney's bedroom, but inevitably he made no attempt to do so. Her room remained intact, exactly as she had left it, down to the copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ laying in her chair with a bookmark edging between the pages. It was vaguely pathetic, he supposed, to not pack up her possessions, but the alternative would be shipping them off to storage in denial that she had ever lived there. Disturbing, too, were the cardboard boxes that rested inside her closet, meticulously labeled 'Office Effects of Jack Bristow'.  
  
  In the early morning, when he formerly would be nagging Sydney to eat something, Eric made coffee in morose silence and never, ever wore the navy suit that clashed with his hair.  
  
  He was more irritated than surprised by the doorbell ringing as he washed his breakfast dishes. Mike, probably, stopping by before work again. When Sydney had first returned, Eric had been forced to chose sides. His friendship with Mike was moot at this point.  
  
  Eric walked to the front hallway and tugged open the door, grimacing.  
  
  Standing on the landing, dark leather, blonde hair, impenetrable sunglasses. Not, he realized, Michael Vaughn.  
  
  Sark held a handgun aimed at Eric's throat.

-  
 


	22. The Rainbow Connection

> **Author's Note.** Of course, thank you to everyone who reviewed. You keep me motivated!  
Not much else to say, except _WARNING_. This next chapter contains from really graphic violence. I know nobody really pays attention to ratings (well, I don't anyway) but I actually mean it this time. It gets pretty gross. So, beware, my duckies. If you're squeamish (not a bad thing – I am, too) or if you just ate a filling meal, turn back now. Mm-'kay?  
Thanks for listening, and for reviewing. Nothing but love for you, ai'te? (This is what happens when a geek tries to use slang. They spell it phonetically. Oh, the horror!)  
Cheers,  
Ren

-  
**Part 22 : The Rainbow Connection**  
-  
  
Eric observed the pistol aimed at his neck without blinking. After a taking a moment to briefly consider his options, he took a step back and fully pushed open the front door. Sark watched him with unflinching steadiness.  
  
"Come in," Eric said, unconcerned, inviting the devil into his home, and turned his back on Sark. He walked evenly down the hall, trusting Sark to follow.  
  
He had just entered the living room when Sark caught him. With unrestrained violence the shorter man grabbed hold of Eric, spinning him around so that they were face to face. Eric moved to shrug him away. Sark seized him by the collar, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the wall. Immediately Eric felt the hollow steel of the Glock against his temple.  
  
"Where did they take her?" Sark hissed, letting Eric slide to his feet while holding his forearm across Eric's throat.  
  
"Kill me," Eric grunted, "and I won't be able to ask what the hell you're talking about."  
  
"They were _waiting!_" he barked, "Sydney followed your advice and they were there _waiting_! So don't fucking _tell me_," His hand shook, fingers curling dangerously against the trigger, "that you had nothing to bloody do with it!"  
  
"Where's Sydney?" Eric demanded, jerking his face away from the gun barrel.  
  
"_Gone!_" Sark howled. "We blasted through Ockley's office and they took her!"  
  
The transformation Sark had undergone was almost frightening, perhaps heightened by the trivial fact that he brandished a 9mm. at Eric's head. Any vestige of the perpetual void of emotion Sark was renowned for was shattered. His jaw was clenched, breathing fiercely through his nose, dark sunglasses shielding narrowed, maddened eyes.  
  
"It wasn't me," Eric croaked. "Whoever got her, Sark, it wasn't me."  
  
"Her cell is untraceable. Tell me what alternate conclusions you can draw," Sark hissed, slowly regaining some semblance of restraint. He wanted to be calm when he killed Sydney's betrayer.  
  
"We had escaped into the sewer system," Sark continued angrily, "We had to find an exit far away that was as secluded as possible. Sydney called you. Sydney _trusted_ you. And you led her into a trap."  
  
"I love her," Eric contradicted, seeing his own stunned expression reflected off Sark's sunglasses. "I love her, Sark. Maybe half as much as you do. It wasn't me."  
  
Sark didn't answer, staring at him with contempt. "She's mine," he said. "Do you understand? They took her from me."  
  
With a shove he released Eric.  
  
"She saved me. Again," he spat. "She sacrificed herself so that I could get away."  
  
"It wasn't me," Eric repeated adamantly.  
  
"Then who?" Sark snapped, again leveling the gun at him, more out of desperation than conviction.  
  
"If I knew," Eric responded brutally, "don't you think there'd be a corpse hidden in the trunk of my car?' 

Letting out a growl through his teeth, Sark threw away the Glock. It clattered to the carpet and Eric immediately kicked it away. Sark turned in a circle, raking a hand through his short blonde hair. This, Eric realized, was Sark's every fear confirmed.  
  
He didn't know how to handle being in love.  
  
In blind agitation Sark dropped onto the couch, taking slow, ineffective breaths. Eric stood by, watching warily.  
  
"I was losing her. Long before Ockley ever got to her," Sark observed aloud.  
  
Feeling the heavy absurdity of the situation – a known enemy of the United States was having a meltdown in his living room – Eric crouched tensely opposite Sark. He didn't bother questioning, simply listening closely.  
  
"She was… distant, sometimes. Like she was scared of me." Almost unaware of Agent Weiss' presence, Sark frowned. "Though really, I can see why. There was that whole episode with the acid way back. I suppose that may have given her the wrong impression of me."  
  
"Sark," Eric called.  
  
"And did I almost harpoon her with a latajang," Sark added to himself.  
  
"Sark," Eric grated.  
  
"Or the time I shot the ice out from under her in Siberia. I was kind of a bastard about that."  
  
"Sark," Eric reiterated, finally catching his attention. "She _is _scared of you."  
  
Sark's head jerked up, his gaze focusing on Eric with an expression of demanding confusion.

"Sydney is terrified of loving anybody else. I mean, really, Sark - genius IQ, my ass. Don't you get it?" he sighed. "Every man she's ever loved has either died or betrayed her. Usually both. The only difference with you is that you were always upfront about it."  
  
"We were adversaries back then. Since our partnership I've never betrayed her trust," Sark interrupted. "Never."

"What do you expect, Sark?" Eric yelled. "She's been hurt. Badly. Why in the hell would you expect her to let you in when you yourself treat her like a fucking possession?"  
  
Sark opened his mouth, instantly ready to rebuke him, but Eric cut him off. "'She's mine.' 'Keep your hands off my girl.' Jesus Christ, Sark, how can you blame her for being afraid when you're petrified of admitting you love her?"

"But I do," Sark stated. "And she knows that. We've always accepted that we can't change each other. I've been extremely upfront about the fact that I'm a heartless son of a bitch."  
  
"She chose _you_, Sark. Not me, not Vaughn, _you_. Did you ever think that maybe it's your -" He halted abruptly, eyes widening as he stared at Sark in comprehension. "Maybe it's your choice," he murmured.  
  
Eric reeled backwards, as if creating a greater distance between himself and the lovelorn assassin seated before him could somehow negate the realization he had come to.  
  
"It's you. Oh, God, Syd knew all along," Eric groaned, raking his nails along his scalp. "Back in L.A., she told me she 'didn't have a choice', remember? She was talking about you!"  
  
"Please, take your time explaining. It's not as if Sydney's in mortal danger as we speak," Sark said harshly.  
  
"The prophesy. Rambaldi's fairytale. Irina killed Jack so that I wouldn't get Syd out of this, right, but it wasn't about that! It was never - damnit, don't you see? I have nothing to do with this! Rambaldi wasn't talking about _me_ when he said somebody could make a choice, make a difference in Sydney's destiny. After Jack was murdered, when she went off with you, it wasn't about vengeance," Eric said desperately, "It wasn't that at all. Jack wouldn't have wanted her to throw away a normal life just to avenge his death. He loved Syd too much. He loved _Irina_ too much. For Syd, it was never about revenge. It was about _you_."  
  
"Clarify your point any slower and I will force-feed you three milligrams of C4," Sark noted in a low monotone.  
  
"It's your _choice_, Sark. You're everybody's favorite criminal handyman, don't tell me you can't hide your tracks. The two best operatives on the board and you honestly expect me to believe you can't make it happen? You can't place a few phone calls and then settle down under assumed names on the coast of Australia? Bullshit, Sark," he snarled, "Sydney said it herself. Getting revenge against everyone who ever burned her would require nothing short of genocide. You really think she'd pass up her ticket out of this game just to put a bullet between her own mother's eyes? No. She stayed because of you."  
  
Sark failed to reply, watching Eric without blinking, without breathing.  
  
"You know, I wanted it to be me. I really did," Eric lamented, "I wanted to somehow figure into her life. To somehow be a part of all this." He grinned wryly. "That's a helluva part to be wrong about, though, isn't it? Irina killed Jack for no reason. Not really. Yeah, Syd might have gone to Maui with me, might have gotten a tan, might have bitched about the impracticality of drinking out of coconuts. She might just have been happy for a while. But she would've gone back. She was already in love with you, even then."  
  
"Why didn't she tell me?" Sark whispered.   
  
"Because it's your decision, Blondie. Do you really think you can do the whole Picket Fence scene? 'Cause I gotta say, redemption don't look too likely for you at this point."  
  
"I could have stopped this. Before any of it started," Sark realized, leaning back stiffly.  
  
"Well, not really. I mean, had you known all along, would you have done anything differently? Today, maybe, you'd consider dropping your career in favor of a Happily Ever After with your lady love, but a year ago? A year ago you were getting your head fried by a Brain Specialist Gone Wild."  
  
Sark shrugged, processing the discussion carefully. Belatedly he became aware of his surroundings, observing the room from his perspective on the couch. Eric stood in front of him, arms crossed, his expression strained after the lengthy character analysis of Syd's lover-boy.  
  
"This is rather odd," Sark announced, discomfited.  
  
Releasing a constricted laugh, Eric fell wearily onto the other end of the couch. "I sympathize with Barnett, actually. I'm beginning to learn superspies have a lot of issues."  
  
Sark smiled in chagrined agreement, absently removing his sunglasses from his face. "I have to find her. Tell her... things. I have to rescue her before I can save her." He dropped his head against the couch, and Eric noticed for the first time the majestic bruise sprawling across his pale cheekbone.  
  
"We will," Eric assured. "I picked up quite a few contacts during my first search for Syd, back when everybody thought she was dead. We'll inevitably find some trace of them." He frowned, getting slightly off track - "Is it just me, or does this chick have a habit of disappearing?"  
  
"I've already assigned Medici agents to tracking her," Sark argued. "There's nothing to find. The only lead I had was you. The only _possible_ lead was you. Somebody must have heard you direct her to the exit. The Covenant must have someone inside the CIA."  
  
"We'll find her, Sark. Have a little faith," Eric grunted, himself out of his mind with fright.  
  
"Faith is what led Irina to murder Jack Bristow," Sark said coldly.  
  
"I'll call in sick. I'll use any and all resources. I mean, hell, I have that 300 million dollars Syd dumped in my bank account just waiting to be spent." Sark shot him an annoyed glance. "And Mike will want to help out, too. He was there when she called, he heard it all. He still loves her, Sark. Besides, he'll want to prove himself again, you know, after that whole Allison incident." Eric rose and began pacing, unconscious to the stare Sark fixed upon him reminiscent of the bug-eyed expression Eric had worn moments before during his sudden epiphany.  
  
"Michael Vaughn was there?" Sark inquired softly.  
  
"He was listening in while we talked. I didn't really tell him anything, but he knows something's up." Eric continued walking in irregular circles along the carpet. The room, the entire house, was sparsely furnished - dark woods and thick fabrics, simple and elegant and unmistakably evocative of Sydney.  
  
"Was he there the whole time? In front of you? Was he ever out of your sight?" demanded Sark urgently, leaning forward.  
  
"Yeah, of course - no. I turned my back to him for a minute. Just a second to talk to Syd. When I turned back he was -" Eric frowned, incredulous. "He was doing something to the computer. Said he was deleting the cache."  
  
"Callaghan. Oh, bloody hell. The bastard double-bluffed me," Sark exclaimed grimly.  
  
"Remember your crack about the C4? Ditto," Eric sniped.  
  
"That little angst-whore Michael Vaughn. When he was captured in Taipei, I was in charge of torturing him at first. I passed him off to Khasinau to start planning Irina's extraction from the CIA. I gave him to _Khasinau_. Irina's old lackey," Sark explained restlessly. Eric continued his impression of a disoriented guppy. "_As in, pawn in Irina's grand scheme_," Sark added.  
  
Eric was experiencing trouble speaking.  
  
"Pay attention now," Sark chided. "During Sydney's confinement within the Covenant, Ockley, in an attempt to break through her mental defenses, told her Michael Vaughn was a sleeper agent for the Covenant. After her escape, she had Simon Walker use his contacts to verify the information. He confirmed the fact. Sydney then returned to L.A. under the guise of amnesia. Understand?"  
  
"Flash cards might help," Eric sneered.  
  
"Yes, well. After my own therapeutic stay with the Covenant, Joshua Callaghan granted me access to the Covenant mainframe just before I killed him. I used that to check for myself if the information regarding Agent Doormat was correct. Suffice to say, it was less than conclusive, forcing me to draw the conclusion that it was a false document. Also, the timeframe Sydney provided as to when Vaughn's conditioning would have taken place was during the two-month span where I myself had Mr. Vaughn under custody, which I say with some confidence that no brainwashing took place," Sark clarified.  
  
"Could you maybe say it in a more pretentious manner?" Eric disparaged sarcastically, seemingly attempting to pace a rut in the carpet.  
  
"I failed to take into account the fact that on the second month of Agent Vaughn's incarceration I passed over watchdog duties to Khasinau, who in all likelihood was in on Irina's ultimate strategy. It is entirely possible that Khasinau in turn passed over Vaughn to Ockley without my knowledge."

"So what are you saying, Sark? My best friend since college has been brainwashed into being an agent for an evil shadow organization?"  
  
"Yes, exactly. Sort of like Sydney, but without the heroic turning of the tables. Or the magnificent body."  
  
Eric halted, his head pounding. "What about Lauren?" he asked.  
  
"An innocent. Someone connected with NSC. Purely a mark to keep Vaughn's cover," Sark said shortly, reaching under the couch.  
  
"But this is all just conjecture," Eric argued fiercely. "There's no proof that he's Covenant. No proof that he betrayed Sydney."  
  
Sark straightened, having retrieved the fallen Glock from beneath the couch. He jacked the safety back and slid the chamber into place. "No. But I intend to find out," he answered.  
  
-  
  
Sydney willed her eyes to open, willed her mouth to scream, yet nothing. Every nerve ending was alive, sensitive to the gentle fingers combing her hair, and yet she was powerless to move, to see, to speak. Darkness engulfed her and she smelled the harsh scent of antiseptic steel.  
  
"Give it a minute," cautioned a lifeless Russian voice. "The narcotics haven't worn off yet. She can probably hear you, though."  
  
There was no answer. The gentle hands running through Sydney's hair continued, breath against her face telling her someone was hovering just above.  
  
"Open your eyes, sweetheart," said a second voice, this one closer. Sydney instantly recognized it.  
  
Against the instinct to hide, Sydney forced her body to comply, wrenching open her eyelids to stare Irina in the face.

Irina smiled, shadowed in the muted light, seated beside the padded table Sydney was strapped onto. She soothingly stroked her daughter's hair, her face, calmly as she had twenty years prior. Sydney's jacket had been removed and replaced by a sleeveless button-down, and she was barefoot. Sydney didn't speak. "You called for him in your sleep," Irina whispered. Sydney turned her head slightly, straining for a view of where she was being kept. A leather strip across her throat constricted her ability to see. "'_Julian, Julian_', you cried. Only for him, and not for Jack. Not even for Eric Weiss. Only for your Julian," Irina said. "You love him."  
  
Sydney met her gaze, glaring. "I wouldn't stick a knife in his chest just because some long-dead Nostradamus-wannabe told me to, if that's what you mean," she rasped.  
  
Irina smiled, almost painfully, fingering a lock of her hair patiently. "I loved my husband, Sydney. As much as you love your Mr. Sark. Don't ever doubt that."  
  
Sydney could hear the second person, out of sight, working silently, metal clinking against metal. Irina leaned in closer, breathing into her ear.  
  
"The one constant thing in Jack's life was his love for you, Sydney. You must know that. Yes, I murdered him. But I did so to set you free."  
  
Sydney was in danger, fierce and immediate. She laughed loud and long.  
  
Disappointed, Irina moved back, taking hold of Sydney's hand. Carrying a tray, Ockley appeared beside the operating table. Without comment he selected a scalpel and smiled down at Sydney.  
  
"Nothing that will scar," Irina warned.  
  
Sickened, Sydney remained immobile as Ockley put the blade against her upper arm and made a shallow incision from wrist to elbow. She ground her teeth together and made her muscles relax. She'd learned the trick two years ago.  
  
"You used to do that across, not lengthwise," Sydney said, watching Ockley without expression. "Isn't that what you used to tell me? Shorter cuts heal faster, but hurt just as much."  
  
Ockley wiped the scalpel off with a white rag, delighted. "You remember! Good."  
  
He turned her arm to cut along the inside of her elbow. She barely flinched.  
  
"So brave," Irina remarked. "You like the pain?"  
  
"I'm used to it," Sydney grunted.  
  
For hours Ockley worked, until her skin was criss-crossed with dripping gashes and the handtowel Ockley held was stained completely red. Ockley had gathered some new instruments since they'd last met; long, scratching knifes and short, spiked clamps, scissors and tweezers and peroxide to agitate the wounds. Always, Irina sat by, her fingers sticky with blood as she petted Sydney's hands. Always, Ockley cleaned each cut to prohibit scarring.  
  
"Where are we?" Sydney asked finally, late into the night, soon after Irina placed an IV in her veins when she'd lost too much blood.  
  
"Ah. The patient speaks," Ockley laughed, bent over her leg as he drew dizzying patterns in her skin.  
  
Without answering, Irina brushed damp hair from Sydney's forehead. "Does it hurt, Sydney?" she murmured.  
  
"What do you want?" Sydney lashed, jerking as best she could away from her mother's touch.  
  
"I want you to hate me," she responded simply. "I want you to succeed where I failed. You know this, my love. Does it hurt?"  
  
The word escaped her lips unbidden. "Yes."  
  
There were tears in her eyes as Irina nodded faintly, swiping by habit at Sydney's hair. "When you were little, I would sing to you. Remember?"   
  
Sydney felt a wave of anguish, despair, disbelief deep in her gut.  
  
"When you were little and you would fall down, scrape your knees or hit your head or bruise your palms on the tree bark. Remember?"  
  
Ockley moved back to Sydney's arms, checking his damage, taping closed the deeper cuts, reopening the smaller ones. He glanced at Irina in question. "Fingernails?"  
  
At Sydney's left, Irina squeezed her daughter's fingers. "You can have one hand. Leave her trigger finger."  
  
Bile rose up Sydney's throat at their words, staring at Irina with wild panic. "No - Mom, please, _don't_ -"  
  
A small kindness, Ockley placed a strip of leather between her teeth to keep her from swallowing her tongue, pulling up a chair and taking up scalpel and pliers. He tightened the bindings at Sydney's wrist.  
  
He started with her thumbnail, cutting away the tough skin embedding the nail. Irina steadily combed her hair, drew close, and quietly sang to her.  
  
"_Why are there so many songs about rainbows  
and what's on the other side?_"  
  
Ockley slowly slid the blade beneath the nail, skin tearing and blood oozing. Futile, Sydney kicked against her bindings in blind agony.  
  
"_Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,  
and rainbows have nothing to hide._"  
  
Taking the jagged nail between the pliers, Ockley pulled, gently, moving it side to side as it slowly tore free from her finger. Sydney bit down into the leather strip in a soundless shriek, writhing, helpless.  
  
_"So we've been told and some chose to believe it.  
I know they're wrong, wait and see."_  
  
One gone, Sydney's fingertip bloody and serrated. Four to go. Irina sang to her.  
  
"_Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.  
The lovers, the dreamers and me._" 


	23. Lucifer

Author's Notes : First of all, I'd like to sincerely apologize for making everyone feel squeamish and fearful for their fingernails. It was not my intention.  
… Well, all right. It was. But sorry nonetheless. (Is "nonetheless" one word? It isn't, is it? Becca, help!!)  
I of course want to thank a lot of people, most of whom I'll probably forget while typing this. Thank you, **ziggystar** (worst fear, huh? Mine is drowning in a vat of gummy worms. Dunno why, just seems like a lousy way to die, non?), **cindymusiclover** (you were the only one who guessed Vaughn was evil by chapter 21! You go, girl! (you are a girl – right? Please say I didn't just insult you…)), **presiosa** (thanks for the compliment – and don't worry, someone will slap Irina very soon), **Sydney47** (I. Love. You.), **Kim the Manipulative Little Mo** (Love, love, love the name. That is all), **Stoic** (upon your advice, I belatedly looked up the definition of 'genocide'. Gotta say, I think I was a happier person before I knew that... But still, I really appreciate you letting me know!), **hannahbanana** (I'm a rather morbid person, I'm afraid. Most people don't actually congrgatulate me on that, so thanks. Cute name, btw!), **Chaosti** (you're quite faithful in your reviews, don't think I haven't noticed! I'm always eternally grateful to hear frrom you – thank you so very much!), **mystripedskirt** (thanks for hanging in so long with this story. Only 2 more chapters to go! I'm forever indebted to you for all your comments. They really do mean the world to me!), and to **anybody I inevitably forgot** : thank you again. _Sobs _I love you guys!  
God, I love reviews.  
Cheers,   
Ren  
Aargh! I forgot Becca! How could I forget Becca?!?!?!  
Eh-hem. Thanks, Bec. You drastically rock.  
  
-  
**Part 23 : Lucifer**  
-  
  
Left, right, left. He walked steadily back and forth, nervously crossing and uncrossing his arms, inhaling and exhaling, anxious and dreading.  
  
Headlights shone through the entrance tunnel and Vaughn pulled up beside Eric's car in the otherwise empty parking garage.  
  
"What's the matter? You said it was urgent," Vaughn exclaimed, swinging open the door, out of breath.  
  
Eric sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I – eh, wanted a word."  
  
"Is this about Sydney?" Vaughn guessed, frowning tiredly.  
  
"In a way," Eric said.  
  
"You gotta move on, man. Let her go. This isn't healthy, Eric." Vaughn patted him on the shoulder, and Eric glanced impatiently at his watch, wondering what was taking Sark so long.  
  
"So what's this about?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You called me in the middle of the night asking me to meet you across town," Vaughn grunted, "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Eric assured, scanning the entrance for any signs of back-up.  
  
"_Nothing_? It didn't sound like a 'nothing' over the phone. C'mon, Eric, talk to me."  
  
Eric turned his gaze at Vaughn, realizing that, yes, truly, he was required to make small talk with the man he was about to help torture.  
  
He'd really gotten to hate irony.  
  
"I – uhm," Oh, shit. "I had a dream."  
  
"A dream."  
  
Eric found he couldn't begrudge Vaughn his skeptical tone. "Yeah. A bad one. There was… blood. A lot of it. In a bathtub," he continued randomly.  
  
"Blood. Okay," Vaughn nodded.  
  
"Yeah. And – eh – Sydney was there. She had, uhm… a knife, right. A big mother of a knife," Eric said wildly.

"What was she doing?" Vaughn asked, worried. "She… umm…" _Where the hell was Sark?_ "She was… ahh… stabbing a Smurf."  
  
"A Smurf?" he repeated incredulously.  
  
_A Smurf?!_, Eric wondered hysterically.  
  
"Yeah. Papa Smurf. You know, the one with the beard and the hat and no shirt. She was stabbing him."  
  
The object here was to avoid suspicion, Eric thought belatedly. "His blood was blue," he added faintly. "You dreamed Sydney was stabbing a Smurf next to a bathtub full of blue blood," Vaughn stated.  
  
"No, the bathtub was full of regular blood. I just thought it interesting, you know, that Smurf's bleed blue," he explained weakly.  
  
"At least in your dreams they do."

"Right."  
  
"Okay."  
  
The two men fell silent, both uncomfortable for different reasons. Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it.  
  
"It was very traumatizing," Eric offered.  
  
Thankfully another set of headlights appeared in the entrance, tires squealing recklessly as a black Mercedes jerked to a stop, boxing Vaughn's car between the curb and Eric's BMW. Without switching off the engine Sark stepped out, dressed in mandatory black with sunglasses again masking his eyes.  
  
Vaughn was justifiably confused. "Sark... What the hell is –"  
  
Forgetting etiquette, Sark ignored him and withdrew the handgun hidden in his sleeve, placing a quick bullet in Vaughn's kneecap. The gunshot echoed through the empty garage.  
  
Screaming in shock and searing pain Vaughn fell heavily to the pavement. Dark blood sprayed against Eric, inches away. "You're late," he told Sark.  
  
"I had to retrieve something," Sark explained shortly, grabbing Vaughn by the collar and dragging him over to a cement pillar. "I trust you kept him occupied."  
  
"Oh, sure," Eric attested, "We talked about… stuff."  
  
"Weiss – ahh, _damnit_. What's going on?" Vaughn gasped, clutching his leg in torment.  
  
Without answer Sark seized hold of his arms, twisting them back to handcuff his wrists behind the pillar, securing him there.  
  
"Was that really necessary?" Eric complained, gesturing to the trail of blood Vaughn had left on the cement.  
  
"Not really," Sark replied indifferently, "but it was very therapeutic."  
  
"We don't even know if it's true, Sark. You could be completely wrong about Mike," Eric insisted.  
  
"Eric - ahh, _God_," Vaughn gritted in pain, "What are you _doing_? You're working for Sark?"  
  
"No," Eric said tersely, "This is more pro bono work. Sorry in advance if Sark's wrong about you."  
  
Sark crouched beside Vaughn, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming Vaughn's head against the cement pillar. "Sydney. Tall brunette, absurdly attractive, once stuck a knife through your ribs. Where might I find her?" he asked conversationally.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Vaughn groaned.  
  
"You're _Covenant_," Sark hissed. "Was it Ockley, too? Did they lock you down in that little room and convincec you that you were their pawn? Did they do to you in less than a month what it took almost a _year _to do to Sydney?"  
  
Vaughn disowned any knowledge of Sydney's whereabouts, contradicting in breathless tones the accusations Sark threw at him. It quickly escalated into a screaming match, Sark filled with white fury and Vaughn with adamant denial. Eric turned away, sickened.  
  
"_Where is she?_" Sark demanded.  
  
"I don't know! I don't know what the fuck you're talking about! Eric - what -" Vaughn sputtered helplessly.  
  
Sark pounded his fist against Vaughn's face. A sickening crack and a spurt of blood announced a broken nose.  
  
"Stop," Eric said suddenly. He faced them again, walking over to where Vaughn was chained to the pillar and Sark stood with his hand smeared in blood. Eric knelt beside Vaughn. "Give us a minute," he told Sark.  
  
For a moment Sark didn't move, staring coldly at Vaughn. Finally, he grunted with disgust and walked over to the Mercedes, out of hearing range.  
  
"What are you doing, Eric?" Vaughn asked instantly, blinking slowly at his friend.  
  
"Sark hacked into the Covenant mainframe a while ago. He thinks you might be working for them," Eric explained quietly.  
  
Vaughn gave out a snorting laugh, resting his head against the concrete behind him. "I love Sydney. You know that."  
  
"I know you did," Eric said bluntly. "I know that the real Mike would want me to do anything within my power to ensure Sydney's safety." He grabbed hold of Vaughn's knee, digging his thumb into the bullet hole. Vaughn cried out in surprised agony. "I know that resisting torture was never your strong point. I know that Irina Derevko will stop at nothing to forward her plans for her daughter. And I _know_," he gritted, "that I will kill you myself if you don't tell me where the Covenant has taken Sydney."  
  
No sound came from Vaughn except a vague moan of pain. Eric released his hold on his leg, standing.   
  
"Any luck?" Sark called out, leaning casually against the black Mercedes.  
  
Eric nodded, glaring down at Vaughn. "He's Covenant," he confirmed shortly.  
  
Vaughn stared at him, disbelieving. "I don't know anything," he repeated.   
  
"Excellent," Sark said, withdrawing his car keys from his pocket. Without explanation he moved to the trunk, unlocking it leisurely and lifting it open.  
  
"Oh, god," Eric murmured.  
  
Seizing her thoughtlessly by her thick blonde hair, Sark tugged a gagged and bound Lauren from of the trunk, forcing her to scramble out on her elbows and knees. Violently he let her drop onto the pavement. Vaughn watched in wordless petrification.  
  
"Both Allison Doren and Irina Derevko fabricated lives for themselves to better serve their seperate causes, be it for purely informational purposes or to further a maddeningly complex yet inarguably pointless plan originated by an 16th century lunatic with frequent hallucinations and some paper," Sark said calmly, looking directly at Vaughn. "In both instances, the agent was required to form a significant relationship with a member of the opposite sex to serve as a shield from inquiry. In both instances, the agent developed some semblance of real feeling toward their mark." He crouched down beside a terrified Lauren, drawing a switchblade from his boot. "I don't see why you should be any different, Agent Vaughn."  
  
Eric stepped forward. "Sark, wait, this isn't -"  
  
"Don't touch her!" Vaughn howled, cutting him off. "Don't hurt her! Eric, she's my _wife_!"  
  
Sark placed the knife against Lauren's throat. "Yes, Agent Vaughn, this is your wife. And I can assure you, when I find Sydney I fully intend on marrying her. So you, of all people, understand the lengths I am willing to go to rescue her." To prove his point, Sark drew a red line across Lauren's neck with the cold steel blade.  
  
A single tear slid from her eyes, whimpering through the strip of tape covering her mouth. Eric felt repulsed, unsure of what all he was willing to compromise. There would be no going back if he allowed Lauren's death.  
  
Eric stood still.  
  
"Stop!" Vaughn ordered. "Stop it! I'll tell you! Just don't..."   
  
Sark removed the knife from under her chin, allowing her to again fall awkwardly onto the ground. He stepped over her, coming to a halt in front of Vaughn. "I won't ask again," he warned.  
  
Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, Vaughn avoided his gaze. "Rambaldi," he said slowly. "It's her religion."  
  
There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, and after a moment Sark nodded. Without another word he sheathed the switchblade and walked steadily back to the Mercedes, where he opened the door and climbed inside. He glanced absently at Eric, who was doing a magnificent impression of an autistic schoolboy separated from his tour group. "Coming?" Sark asked briskly.  
  
"What, that's it?" Eric snorted. "That's all you needed to know? Hell, I could've told you that!"  
  
"I'll explain on the way. Are you in or out?" Sark said impatiently.

He glanced down at Lauren, who was weeping silently on the oil-stained pavement. Without answering, Eric stooped beside her, gently peeling away the tape slapped across her mouth. "Are you all right?" he whispered.  
  
Her eyes darkened, baring her teeth at him. "Get away from me," she snapped.  
  
"I'm sorry about this, Lauren. I really am. You have to understand..." He struggled with the words, unable to explain sufficiently.  
  
Lauren shook her head, tuning him out.  
  
"He's a traitor, Lauren. Mike's Covenant. He sold out Sydney. He's a _traitor_," Eric insisted, tugging away her rope bindings. She recoiled from his touch, curling into a defensive ball.  
  
"_So are you_," she spat harshly. "You'll never convince her," Sark cautioned, observing from the driver's seat.  
  
Eric spared one last look at Vaughn, who was breathing heavily, still chained to the pillar. Shaking his head, Eric strode to the Mercedes, stepping into the passenger side. Sark slid the gear into Drive and slammed on the gas pedal, tearing away from the bloody scene they'd caused.  
  
-  
  
Soothing darkness to blinding light, jolting her body as she suddenly came awake. Ockley glanced up, bent over her hand as he bathed her fingertips in cool water, burning her into consciousness.  
  
"Did you have a nice rest?" he asked lightly, almost kindly. Less than twenty minutes ago she had blacked out from the gnawing pain shooting up her arm.  
  
Sydney didn't answer right away, tilting her head to the side as much as the straps would allow. She was being kept in a quiet room filled with soft light, the smell of stone and staleness tainting the air. The walls surrounding her were bare, made of ageless granite, the same as the floor and ceiling. The steel folding chair Irina had set beside the operating table was vacated - she was alone with Ockley.  
  
Eventually she turned back to face the doctor, frowning slightly. "You know, if your boy Milo is right about all this," she said slowly, "you will die at my hands."  
  
Ockley smiled thinly, dabbing at the plentiful cuts criss-crossing her arms and legs, her stomach, her hands. Scratches, not deep enough to scar, were slashed irregularly across her face with a craft knife. "I've given up everything for Rambaldi," he said simply. "Maybe as much as Irina herself. Why then would I hesitate to give my life for his cause?"  
  
"Why?" she asked, the ever-present Question. "Why Rambaldi? Why the obsession with his work? Why - why _this?_" She jerked her hand up, the chains holding her down chinking together to illustrate her point. "Why the brainwashing? Why the torture? Why kill Dad? What could possibly make this all right?"  
  
"Just the pleasure of your company," said a new voice, faintly southern, making her skin crawl. A small, dark-haired man stood in the open doorway, scrutinizing Sydney with glee.  
  
Ockley looked over at the newcomer with undisguised annoyance, an unwanted intrusion upon an artist at work. "Julia, you'll remember James Pike. He served as a liaison between the Covenant and the Medici, I believe."  
  
Sydney raised a skeptical eyebrow, observing Pike with disinterest. No mean feat when strapped on a table, skin slick with your own blood. "Hmm," she grunted dismissively, "Those bruises are healing nicely."  
  
Pike scowled. The aftermath of his encounter with Sark and a tabletop were still clearly visible four days later, a black eye and a busted lip. He straightened, sauntering over to the operating table. Ockley turned away to his instruments, wiping each stained metal piece with the same red rag.  
  
The shirt Sydney had been fitted with was unbuttoned half way up to expose her stomach, where long, symmetrical cuts blazed brightly. Pike smiled faintly, sadistically, and ran a finger along her bare torso. "Where's Sark to stop me from touching you now?" he whispered.  
  
Sydney snorted mockingly, unexpected. "Listen, you little monkey. At this point, a psychopathic midget feeling me up would be a welcome reprieve from the admittedly highly-skilled torture. Go ahead," she encouraged, "I'd enjoy seeing Irina literally rip your spine out through your nose when she sees you groping her daughter."  
  
Ignoring them both, Ockley fetched a lighter from his white labcoat, flicking it on. He held the open flame to Sydney's mangled fingertips, cauterizing the wounds. A suppressed shriek escaped Sydney's throat, caught unprepared. Pike moved back, grinning.  
  
"Enough!" Irina barked, walking quickly into the chamber. "I want her awake. Let her rest for a moment." She was instantly at Sydney's side, putting a hand to her forehead, smoothing back her hair, wiping away her constrained tears. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Bite me," Sydney grunted promptly.  
  
Pike laughed, enchanted with her moxie. He needed a girlfriend in the worst sort of way.  
  
Ockley shut the Zippo, replacing it in his front coat pocket. Irina hovered over Sydney, worry in her eyes. "Can you walk?" she asked.  
  
"Not in my current position, no," Sydney answered sarcastically.  
  
"I have something to show you. Pike, help me unlatch her," Irina commanded, nimbly releasing the fastenings at Sydney's neck and arms. Pike obliged, and soon Sydney was allowed to swing stiff, injured legs over the side of the table, rising to an uncertain sitting position. Her entire body throbbed with renewed pain, the movement awakening the thousand gashes inflicted by Ockley. Pike candidly slipped handcuffs around her wrists as she took a deep breath, counting to three.  
  
"Try to stand up," Irina instructed, a hand on her shoulder.   
  
Sydney locked eyes with Ockley, who stood directly in front of her, and she forced her legs to comply. Almost instantly her knees buckled, sending her crashing into Ockley. He reached out to brace her as she fell against his chest, arms up to shield her face. She quickly reared back, clutching her wounded hand and snarling in pain.  
  
"Don't jostle her hand!" Irina yelled. "Pike, carry her."  
  
Ignoring her protests, Pike immediately swept her up into his arms. Irina turned on her heel and led them out into the dark corridor, Pike following closely.  
  
"I'll have something new ready when you get back," Ockley called after them. "Have fun, Julia."  
  
"Shove it, Igor," Sydney replied calmly, still holding her injured hand to her chest.  
  
The hallway leading from the torture chamber was shadowed, lit by scented torches burning fiercely in their holders on the stone walls. The floor was covered in tiles, chipped layers of porcelain painted in faded reds and browns. Sydney observed her surroundings with detached unease, swaying slightly as Pike cradled her tauntingly in his arms. Erratic consciousness had lost Sydney her sense of direction; Night and day were unknown. Her only measure of time had been in the span it took for fresh wounds to cease bleeding. She would estimate 20 hours, at least, little more than a random guess.  
  
It was a long corridor, straight down with no offshooting doors or forks in their path. Irina guided them absently, glancing back at Sydney every other step. Finally Pike carried her out of the endless tunnel.  
  
A massive room, with echoing rafters and an altar untouched by time. The sight, the scent, all familiar. "Oh, god," Sydney breathed, "You brought me back."  
  
-  
  
"Sark?"  
  
He gave no answer. He spun the steering wheel, bypassing a school bus, tires screeching.  
  
Eric reached over and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Sark blinked, then bared his teeth. "I'll explain later," he snapped.  
  
In response to the red light up ahead, Sark pressed down harder on the accelerator. Eric, meanwhile, clipped on his seatbelt.  
  
"I trust you have a fake passport readily available?" Sark asked conversationally.  
  
"I really hate you, Sark," Eric commented.  
  
-  
  
Irina quickly crossed the antiquated altar, not sparing a glance to the resplendant furnishings as she moved to the wooden door paralleling the hallway they'd just exited on the opposite side. Pike bounced Sydney playfully, smiling as he walked swiftly after Irina.   
"Chin up, Julie," he said scornfully, "You're safe with us."  
  
She angled her head upward, looking at him carefully. "Hey, Mom?" she called out.  
  
Irina instantly halted, turning to her in question.  
  
"Does this guy have any real purpose, other than spouting ineffuctual zingers?" Sydney asked, frowning as she observed Pike carefully.  
  
Pike glared. Irina half-smiled and kept walking. They passed through the door and into a hallway similar to the one they'd just left, though immediately to their left was a confession booth. Irina navigated deftly down the hall.  
  
Soon they came to a second door, also wooden. Sydney mentally mapped the church - the main entrace led into the chapel, where the two corridors flanking the altar led into either the chamber she'd been previously held in, or into this new hallway, where the half-dozen doors they'd passed would presumably lead to the priests' rectory. The last door at which they stopped led into a place Sydney could only dread.  
  
Irina withdrew a silver key from her pocket and unlocked the creaking oaken door. Inside was relative darkness. Pike conducted Sydney inside.  
  
The sight that met her eyes was both beautiful and fundamentally repulsive. Various objects, alike only in their advanced age, lined the shelves spanning all four walls. Trinkets, boxes, contraptions of no forseeable use. "Rambaldi's artifacts," Irina whispered. "Pike, guard the door."  
  
With surprising care Pike set Sydney on the floor, her back to the wall, and left the two alone. The door closed behind him, his heavy breathing sounding through the plentiful cracks in the ancient wood.  
  
With wide eyes Sydney beheld the glittering chamber, lit sparsely with candles littering the shelves beside the objects. Irina paced the room, skimming her fingers lightly along the artifacts.  
  
"He was an architect," Irina said suddenly. "Pope Alexander VI's chief advisor. He was ex-communicated for heresy, sentenced to death for dare suggesting that science could allow us to communicate with God." She glanced at Sydney, who drew her legs against her chest, her previous energy dissipated.  
  
"He developed machine code during the Ottoman empire, Sydney," Irina added. She lifted a sketch off one of the shelves, a meaningless floor plan of an unbuilt cathedral. Written on the back in smudged ink was an unmistakable prototype for the typewriter. Sydney didn't speak, gripping her injured hand in the other. Irina replaced the sketch.  
  
"These are all Rambaldi's artifacts, every one of them that has survived. Many of them you destroyed after escaping from the Covenant. I've spent my entire life gathering these, Sydney," Irina said, something close to pride in her voice. "Ryden supplied the last few missing pieces in exchange for my permission to hunt you down. He blamed you for Simon Walker's death. You loved Simon?"

"Yes," said Sydney quietly.

"And you're in love with Sark?"

She nodded slowly.

"And you loved Jack?"

"Yeah, Mom," Sydney rasped. "I love everybody I'm supposed to hate. And you know what? I love you, too."

Irina stilled, facing Sydney, unblinking. Sydney leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze, smiling cruelly. "I love you, Mom," she hissed. "I've already lost one parent. Do you really think I'd kill the other? You were wrong. So completely _wrong_."

Irina let out a shuddering breath, her smooth veneer of control slipping fractionally. It was as close to uncertainty as Sydney had ever seen in her mother.

"Don't fool yourself, Sydney," she said forcefully. "Rambaldi dedicated his life to you, just as I have. Of all his stories, yours was his favorite." She paused to consider, choosing her words carefully. "It's like a chess match. A puzzle. Eventually you learn to play it to your advantage. You're a queen, Sydney, the most powerful piece on the board. Don't get caught off guard protecting the pawns."

"Well, gee. Now I see where Julian got his knack for ostentatious diatribes," Sydney muttered. "I get it, Mom. Four moves ahead, right, always be prepared. But that's the problem with looking at everything like a damned chess match. Everything is black and white."

Her words barely seemed to register with Irina, who was again surveying the artifacts with reverence. "Of all his creations, all his discoveries. He considered you to be his greatest," she said in an undertone. Sydney ignored her, dropping his head against her knees in defeat.

With sudden decisiveness Irina spun and traveled to the door, taking hold of the latch and pulling it open just enough to slip through. "Consider it while you rest," she told Sydney, shutting the door behind her. The scratch of wood against metal informed Sydney that she had been locked inside.

She listened, ears straining as she heard Irina speak in a low voice to Pike. Quickly a light step disappeared down the corridor, though the sound Pike's unsettled breathing remained.

Grimacing, Sydney unclenched her hands, which she'd held fervently to her stomach since falling against Ockley. Clutched in her right hand, all the fingernails missing save her index finger, she gripped the lighter Ockley had used to savagely burn her skin. She'd palmed it from his coat pocket after feigning a fall from her weakened legs. Handcuffed at her wrists and ankles, she flicked open the lighter, briefly allowing the limited orange flame to gain heat. Without wasting further time Sydney angled the lighter between her wrists, scorching her fingers further, and held the flame directly to the slim metal chains.

After several minutes, she experimentally tugged on the handcuffs. The metal pulled, bent slightly, the links weakened. Another, more forceful yank, and they broke apart. Purple bruises blossomed directly in a circle along her wrists, but Sydney paid no notice. She immediately began to work on the chains at her ankles.

-

A 9-hour flight filled with tedium and exasperation, and Eric felt he'd been a pretty good sport thus far. Biting his tongue, he followed Sark briskly through the terminal, breezing past bewildered flight attendants inquiring after their utter lack of baggage. Sark waved them off impatiently, loping through the crowded airport, heading directly for the car rental port.

Of course, Sark didn't rent a car. He simply hotwired the first sports car he found and ordered Eric to get in. "Damsel in distress," he said in irritation. "I don't have bloody time to do things legally."  
  
Eric let the issue slide. He did, however, raise hell. "All right, Blondie. Speak up. I just took a plane from Los Angeles to some hellhole in the middle of France, and the only thing you said to me during the entire flight was 'I'll explain when we get there' and 'Are you going to eat that package of peanuts?' The time has come, my non-friend, to tell me what the fuck is going on."  
  
Sark rolled his eyes, wholly unintimidated by the man seated beside him. "Are you always so petulant?" he criticized.  
  
  "You never learned to share, did you?" Eric bickered.  
  
Sark turned the stolen Jaguar onto a quiet residency street, peaceful and picturesque in the late afternoon sun. "I share," Sark argued indignantly. "I share a lot!"  
  
  "Whoa. Did you just have a Care Bear moment?"  
  
In icy response, Sark punched on the radio to full blast, drowning Eric out.  
  
Laughing wearily, Eric switched back off the radio. "All right. I'm serious. What did Vaughn tell you?"

Pulling into an overgrown driveway, Sark relented. "When Sydney and I were each captured and tortured by the Covenant," he began.

"That's never a good way to start a conversation," Eric noted, climbing out of the parked car.

"Yes, well. We were both held in the same room, you see. All white, completely void of any remarkable feature, except for a picture on the wall. L'église des âmes perdues -roughly, the Church of Lost Souls." They reached the porch, stepping over creeper vines winding through the carved wood. "Sydney brought me there before I was brought to the Ockley for brainwashing. It was there, I believe, that I first fell in love with her, though I doubt that was her design. Because of that memory, I recognized the picture, therefore undermining the Covenant's attempts to break into my mind."  
  
Sark withdrew a set of keys from his pocket, unlocking the front door and ushering Eric inside. "I never understood why Ockley would allow such a chance to occur. Why have the picture there at all? It was Agent Vaughn's confession that made me realize, of course. Irina had put the picture there. She didn't want her daughter brainwashed any more than Sydney did herself. Remember, though, Irina was a founding member of the Covenant, now the only surviving director. She did have some sway over Sydney's treatment."

The interior of the small house was a stark contrast to its outer look, all thick leaves and white, chipping paint. Inside was coldly modern, metal and leather and grey.   
  
"So Irina sent Sydney to the church, to break the conditioning that had been marginally successful. Naturally, Sydney's own mental crisis stopped her from delving too deeply into the subject. She, nor I for that matter, ever really considered the significance of the church itself," Sark explained.  
  
"You're really taking your time with this, aren't you?" Eric complained.

"I've always known Irina treats Rambaldi with an almost religious respect," Sark said impatiently. "But so have a great many people over the decades. It seems likely, don't you think, that they'd have some sort of shrine? That Rambaldi isn't just their idol, that perhaps he truly is their God?"  
  
"So, what? This church - it's the Temple of Rambaldi?" Eric said skeptically. "And Irina took Sydney there?"  
  
  "Try to keep in mind, shall we, that Irina is obviously a bit unhinged, as well as a mass murderer," Sark pointed out.  
  
"Which is different from you... how?"  
  
  "I look better in leather," Sark replied confidently.  
  
"If you're expecting a reply, Don't."

Shrugging, Sark crouched beside a massive steel box placed in the corner of the cramped living room. He selected a second key and opened the heavy lock fastened on the handle.

"Hey, you two must really be serious about each other, if she gave you a key to her private arsenal," Eric commented, smiling tightly.   
  
"I gave her the security codes for my stockpiles in Durnstein and Berlin," Sark said easily. "It was a big step for us."  
  
Eric turned away, sighing faintly. Just in view, down the narrow hall, was the single bedroom, a darkened, comfortable room with soft furniture and an unmade bed. "What is this place, anyway?" he asked.

"One of Sydney's safehouses," Sark answered, digging about in the weapons locker. "She used it while she was still under the alias Julia Thorne. I first found her here using the tracker placed on my Mercedes, which she'd previously stolen. Good times."

"What is it with you people and Grand Theft Auto?"

"We're spies. Video games don't hold our interest."

"Fine. So, what's the plan? Head over there and go gun-crazy on Mama Bristow's kidnapping ass? Please tell me you have a better plan than that," Eric said, carefully shifted the conversation back to business.   
  
"Not really, no. You're welcome to opt out. I think she has HDTV, if you'd like to wait here. Or you could go back to L.A.. You're call, really." Finally Sark found the weapon he was looking for, a rifle he'd stored in the house out of foreign respect for its previous owner.  
  
"No, it isn't. I can't go home," Eric said bitterly. "Not after aiding in the torture of not one, but two, say it, _two_ CIA agents. My life back there is over, Blondie. Might as well help rescue the girl."

"That's the spirit," Sark grunted, unknowing or perhaps uncaring of Eric's morose tone. He shouldered the rifle, only then catching Eric's attention.

"Hey, now. That looks... expensive," he remarked.

"Dakota T-76. A gift from Sydney," Sark explained. "It belonged to Simon Walker."  
  
"Yeah, I never really got that. She loved him?" Eric wondered.  
  
  "Hell, I don't know. Her past love life is far too complicated for me to follow, frankly," Sark confessed.  
  
  "Tell me about it."

Eric selected an M-16 from Sydney's entirely over-stocked locker. That done, Sark replaced the lock, hesitating at the door to cast a final glance around the room. Eric followed his gaze, saying wryly, "What, is this the place you two professed your undying love or something?"

"Not exactly. I beat the crap out of her and then ripped her clothes off," Sark stated, unconcerned.  
  
Eric blinked. Thick silence filled the air.  
  
"Well," Eric said finally. "_That_ certainly falls under the category of 'I Shouldn't Have Asked'."

"You said I should learn how to share," Sark defended, smirking.

"I'm going to go attack a church and pretend we never had this conversation. Please do the same."

They returned to the hotwired Jaguar, tearing through the streets of Etrelles, headed west toward Rennes.


	24. High Noon

Author's Notes : All right, cherie. We're going into the last chapters now, so I've decided to cut out my annoying yet (usually) cheerful notes for continuity's sake. Don't want to break up the suspense and all that.  
  Sooo, I want to thank, once and for all, my lovely readers. I love y'all so much! Yes, that's right, announcements make me talk Southern! Amusing, no? I cannot say (no matter how often I've tried) how much your comments mean to me – this story would have stayed a vignette without all the encouraging feedback. You guy … ah, I promised myself I wouldn't cry… You guys have been invaluable to me while writing this fic. Thank you all.  
  And of course Becca. She beta-read this. Heck, by now it's almost as much her story as it is mine! She certainly gets enough of me through email, so I won't go on too long here, but everybody really has to thank her. And read her own fiction. Then review said fiction. This is not negotiable. Go. Now.  
  _Now_.  
  
Thanks for listening!  
  Cheers,  
Renny  
  
-  
**Part 24 : High Noon**  
-  
  
It was early dusk when he approached the ageless marble steps, walking cautiously up to the heavy, gilded wooden doors, a torrent of memories invading his concentration. Weiss followed at an uneasy distance, watching carefully for adversaries.  
  
Sark paused as he reached the doors, running his fingers across the thick bronze handle. It'd been nearly eight months ago that he'd first come to this ancient temple, forgotten on the outskirts of a quiet French village.  
  
Eric grinned slightly. "Are you even allowed to enter a church?" he taunted.  
  
Shooting Eric a glare, Sark swung the rifle off his shoulder, holding it to his chest. He took a step back and slammed his foot against the doors, kicking them open with a shuddering creak.  
  
-  
  
With a contained burst of energy, Sydney jerked her knee upward, keeping the other leg firmly on the ground. Finally, after endless seconds spent holding the stolen lighter to the chainlinks, the cuffs gave way, wrenching apart with a screech of metal.  
  
Instantly she stilled, seated with her back against the wall and listening. Pike's gutteral breathing filtered under the door, signifying his unawareness.  
  
Forcing her lacerated limbs to comply, Sydney scrambled to her feet. The air wavered slightly from the disturbance, stifling in the torch-lit chamber. Eyes watering from strain, she inspected the room, from floor to ceiling, measured it, memorized it, observed every shelf and crevice, moving on borrowed adrenaline. She needed a lock pick.  
  
Swaying lightly, Sydney paced along the narrow room, observing the passing artifacts with a sense of sickened fascination. Sketches and paintings, diagrams and blueprints, half-built contraptions, objects rusted by time. At the very end, high on the shelf, was the frayed pages of his Notebook.  
  
She ignored it.  
  
Reaching out, she snatched the piece Irina had placed meticulously beside the manuscript - Rambaldi's quillpen. With purposefully irreverent movements, Sydney snapped open the glass box and removed the useless artifact she and Sark had sacrificed so much to capture. Crushing the feather in her fist, Sydney spun on her heel and marched toward the door.  
  
She was about to jam the Quill into the keyhole when the handle turned and the door swung open, narrowly missing her body.  
  
"Clever little thing," Pike admonished, aiming a handgun at her forehead. "I knew I'd heard something."  
  
-  
  
It felt like stepping into a dream, half-conscious and distracted. The altar, the pews, the luke-warm holy water filling the basin under the entry archway. All untouched from memory.  
  
The building had haunted him those four months spent in Scarborough under the grinning watch of Ockley. Sark's gaze was drawn instantly to the last bench in the north corner, farthest from the altar as possible, where Sydney had waited for him that silent night when it all began. Sark remembered with crystal clarity her expression, the shadowed smile she'd graced him with when he'd touched her arm.  
  
"_Didn't think you'd come_," she'd whispered, and he'd known then he'd never leave.  
  
"So what are you going to do?"   
  
It took Sark a moment to realize Eric had spoken. He glared at him with a forbidding scowl, as if he'd trespassed on the memories.  
  
"Pardon?" Sark grunted, scanning the chapel for intruders.  
  
"When we find her. What are you going to do?" Eric insisted, trailing Sark with his own weapon held ready.  
  
"Kill quite a lot of people, I imagine," Sark answered indifferently, scaling the shallow steps onto the altar.  
  
"Take her away from this, Sark. Take her away," Eric said wearily.  
  
"I may not actually have a choice," Sark contradicted. "I'm sure you'll agree I'm ill-suited to the American Dream."  
  
A sudden strike against Sark's shoulder made him turn, facing an scowling Eric, who held his arms ready for another shove.  
  
"You selfish bastard," Eric snarled. "I'd give everything to be in your place. I _have_ given everything, come to think of it. Syd threw away her _life_ for you."  
  
"I'm well aware of the debt, Agent Weiss," Sark said coldly.

"_Debt?!_ What are you, twelve? You're keeping score on who saved who's life, who made the ultimate sacrifice for love, who washed the dishes yesterday? You could get Sydney away from all this, and you're on the fence because you don't want to give up your Badass Badge?" Frustrated, Eric smacked his arm again. "Damn, boy, you're an idiot!"  
  
"It's not that simple," Sark said calmly. "We realized from the start that neither of us could change each other. Sydney knows that."  
  
"Oh, stop being such a goddamn coward. It's over, Ice Queen. She did it. Syd changed something in you. If you can't accept that you don't come close to deserving her."  
  
Eric brushed past him, censoring his reply, and circled around the cloth-draped table to where the priest's throne was situated. Sark was still standing expressionless and wordless as Eric inquisitively took hold of the tapestry draping the back wall and tugged it down, fabric riping mercilessly.  
  
"You just defiled a church," Sark pointed out mindlessly, still processing Eric's reprimand.  
  
"Stop reeling and take a gander at the wall," Eric mocked, staring up at the ornate symbol of Rambaldi carved into the marble.  
  
Sark complied, then grimaced, unimpressed. "Tacky. The rest of the church is tasteful, almost muted. That throws off the entire ambiance."  
  
"Say one word about Feng Shui, and I swear to God I will hit you," Eric warned.  
  
Sark contemplated the two doors on opposite sides of the altar. Without discussion, he made toward the right door.  
  
Eric halted him. "Why not the left door?"  
  
"Because we're going right," Sark answered, frowning in confusion.  
  
"I think we should go left," Eric said.  
  
Sark raised an eyebrow at him, patience wearing thin. "I think we should go right," he argued tritely.  
  
Neither man moved.  
  
Eventually, Eric stuck out his hand. "Winner picks," he said.  
  
Sark stared incredulously. "You're like a child, Weiss," he complained.  
  
Eric remained unaffected. Feeling absurd, Sark was forced to partake in a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissor.  
  
Sark selected Scissor. Eric chose rock.  
  
"Huzzah! I _smoked_ you, fool!" Eric sang.  
  
Sark declined to comment.  
  
Eric led the way left. Sark trailed morosely, muttering unintelligibly under his breath.  
  
Immediately they became immersed in flickering torchlight, an archaic reminder that they were in enemy territory. Sark walked silently, fingers gripped tensely around the rifle's trigger, and Eric went quiet. They crept slowly down the stone-carved corridor, an endless trek through unchanging scenery.  
  
"If this is a dead end," Sark whispered, "I'm going to inflict pain like you wouldn't believe."  
  
The torchlight hit upon an obstruction down the hall : a door of splintered wood. It stood adjar, the presence of a figure visible just within.  
  
-  
  
Sydney observed the gun pointed at her, observed Pike sneering at her contemptuously. Without comment, she snuck her uninjured hand up and slammed her knuckles into his nose.  
  
Pike reeled backwards, bringing up his gun and firing a quickly succession of shots. Sydney narrowly dodged the bullets, catching his outstretched arm and spinning sideways into him, elbow-first.   
  
He crumpled against her, strength temporarily sapped. She used the opportunity to drive her fist into the hand he held around the 9mm., causing him to loose his grip on the handle. With practiced ease she spun the pistol into her grasp, her jagged fingers screaming, and aimed the gun blindly. She pulled the trigger, once, Pike's breath sweeping across her cheek. She felt the warmth of the bullet as it passed by into his forehead.  
  
Looking perplexed, Pike's eyes faded closed and he tumbled to the floor.  
  
"Thanks for opening the door. You're such a gentleman," Sydney muttered, idly snapping the Quill in two. She stepped over Pike's stilled body and through the opened doorway.-  
  
After exchanging a glance, Sark wordlessly waved Eric into position, aiming the T-16 rifle at the half-opened door. Taking a deep breath, Eric crossed the remaining distance and shoved against the wooden door, flinging it wide.  
  
"Freeze! CIA!" Eric shouted.  
  
Sark snorted in derision, shooting Eric a scathing look.  
  
The room, like the hallway outside, was dark and granite-walled, sparsely furnished only by a padded operating table, two stools and a metal instrument tray positioned beside the table.  
  
Ockley turned slowly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "I wondered when you would come," he said, smiling wistfully.  
  
Sark didn't speak, staring through the rifle's sighter at the doctor.  
  
"Where's Sydney Bristow?" Eric demanded, circling the room to flank Ockley.  
  
"She's with her mother. She should return soon," Ockley replied calmly.  
  
"_Where?_" Eric gritted.  
  
Ockley sighed, theatrical and patronizing. "The artifact chamber. Last room in the right corridor, behind the rectories. Can't miss it."  
  
Sark let out a hissing noise through his teeth.  
  
"Don't say 'I told you so'," Eric warned.  
  
"Consider it said," Sark snapped.  
  
Ockley began carefully sidling sideways, trapped between Sark and Eric, making his way painstakingly toward the tray of torture instruments. "Sydney spoke of you," he told Sark. "When she blacked out as I cut into her, she would whisper 'Julian', over and over again. Much has changed, I believe," he whispered, "since last I saw her. Back then she would scream for her father, or Michael Vaughn. She never cried." He grinned. "Not once."  
  
Smiling bizarrely, Sark nodded, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and pacing leisurely over to Ockley. Face to face, Sark clapped a hand over Ockley's shoulder. The doctor had enough sense to realize his life was all but over.  
  
"No, I expect she didn't cry," he said, "But let's see about _you_."  
  
Ockley immediately went scrabbling for a weapon, upsetting the perfectly-aligned tray of intruments nearby. In response Sark seized him by the collar and smashed his face into the tray, clamps bruising and scalpels slicing. Without pause Sark hauled him back again, shoving him brutally down onto the table. Ockley struggled desperately, howling and swiping at his wounded face as Sark took hold of the leather straps built into the table and latched his ankles down.  
  
"Sark, we don't have time for this!" Eric yelled uneasily.  
  
"No," Sark growled, as he forced Ockley's arms down and chained him in place. "For this, we do."  
  
Sark ignored him and Eric watched, paralyzed with revulsion, as Ockley bellowed in terror, pulling at his bindings. Sark half-turned, glancing at the unsettled tray set within easy reach. He snatched the red-stained rag tossed carelessly to the side, brandishing it angrily. "Sydney's blood?" he asked savagely, wrenching open Ockley's jaw to gag him with the despicable strip of cloth.  
  
Next, Sark selected a short-bladed craft knife, testing the sharpness on his fingertip with businesslike care. Ockley groaned fretfully through the rag that was choking him.  
  
Eric attempted to interject reason. "Sark, wait, you can't -"  
  
Sark didn't bother listening. He pressed the knife just below Ockley's ribs and sunk the blade deep. Eric turned away, sickened. He inspected the wall with queasy fervency, unable to drown out the grotesque noises filling the room.  
  
"Shall we?" Sark said briskly, stepping away from the body strapped to the operating table. He wiped his dripping hands off on Ockley's labcoat, leaving rust-colored handprints on the white cotton.  
  
"That was sick, Sark. That was... wrong," Eric said quietly as they trooped back down the corridor.  
  
Sark glanced at Eric in irritation. "You weren't there, in that little white room in Scarborough. You don't know what he did to Sydney. What he did to us _both_," he snarled. "Save your indignation, Agent Weiss. Had I the time, I would have kept him alive for days."  
  
He brushed past Eric, leading the way back toward the chapel.  
  
-  
  
He saw her instantly, eyes drawn instinctively to her as he stepped through the narrow doorway. She knelt on the steps, staring unblinking at the symbol carved on the wall that Sark had found so tawdry. She was aware of their presence immediately - after years spent under her tutelage, Sark still knew her movements, her tells, regardless of his attempts to forget.  
  
"She is unharmed, for the most part," Irina called out, unmoving from her position of tainted worship. "I would not see my own child killed, despite what you think of me, Sark."  
  
"One could forgive the impression, I dare say," Sark responded slowly. "If Jack's fate is anything to judge by."  
  
At length Irina drew her gaze away from Rambaldi's symbol, observing the two men standing, menacing, from across the altar. Sark's expression remained dangerously impassive; Eric conveyed his raging contempt for her with a rather simplistic hand gesture.  
  
"Sydney drew something to my attention a moment ago," Irina said lightly, rising regally to her feet. "It seems I confused some details of Rambaldi's text. The _Choice_," Her voice rang hollow through the rafters. "I considered the possibility years ago, when Sydney was still at SD-6. When I first realized you were to be Sydney's lover, it occured to me that you might be the one who could change her destiny. It wasn't ignorance on my part, Sark. It was worse. It was affection, for both you and Sydney. Had I accepted the truth then, it would be you beneath the ground, not Jack. I convinced myself it was Agent Weiss that Rambaldi spoke of. I convinced myself it was -"  
  
"Good lord, you old crone. Don't you ever shut up?" Eric burst, exasperated.   
  
Irina stopped short, examining Eric closely as if for the first time.  
  
"I mean, _really_, woman!" Eric barked. "There are thousands of different ways Rambaldi's secret diary can be translated! What makes you so damn certain that you're right? You kill Jack, you kill Sark, it doesn't matter, because if you push Sydney too far, she won't submit. She won't become invincible. She'll _break_. Stop trying to remake your daughter in your own image and concentrate on writing sympathy cards!"  
  
Irina didn't flinch, didn't bat an eye. Sark stood by guardedly, listening to the scene playing out before him.  
  
"I thought it was you," Irina answered carefully. "When Sydney was ready to give up, when you persuaded her to run away with you. I was wrong, wasn't I? She never would have left. I killed my husband for nothing."  
  
"Bingo! Tell the lucky lady what she's won!" Eric taunted.  
  
Suddenly, Sark began moving. Disregarding them both, moving swiftly across the altar, passing within inches of Irina. He made his way straight for the opposite door. He'd grown weary of their bickering; He was going to find his girl.  
  
Irina fixed her gaze on his retreating back, coldly calculating. Her hand flew to her hip.  
  
"Sark! Get down!" Eric yelled, launching clumsily through the air. He caught Sark around the waist, an awkward flying tackle. Rapid gunshots bit into stone and wood as they hit the floor, hard, caught between the row of pews and the wall. Irina emptied the Beretta, shooting wildly, her normally deadly aim erratic as she ran to the door on the right. Sark was just disentangling himself from beneath Eric as Irina slammed the door behind her.  
  
"She's going after Sydney!" he cried hoarsely, clambering to his feet.  
  
Eric hastily lifted himself off the ground, following Sark as the assassin bolted for the door. Eric got three steps before his legs buckled and he fell to his knees.  
  
Sark grunted impatiently, doubling back to grab his arm. Eric swatted him away, pressing a hand to his stomach. "My... back - _aghhh_," he hissed.  
  
It took a moment for Sark to see it, glistening in the low light against Eric's all-black clothing. Blood, staining his jacket, sticky and sweet, seeping from Eric's chest. Cautiously Sark circled around, crouching behind him.  
  
A bullet had passed straight through Eric, grazing his spine and exiting through his ribcage.  
  
At a loss, Sark applied pressure with his hand to the entry wound. Eric shivered, a spasming shudder that repeated itself rapidly, and soon he began to shake incontrolably, against his will, going into shock.  
  
Sark didn't say a word. All his knowledge, all his tricks, were useless against this type of wound. He was far better at inflicting than repairing.  
  
Unable to contain it, a helpless wail escaped Eric's throat. Pain, vast and fierce, spread throughout his entire body. He sagged against Sark, kicking his legs weakly.  
  
"Try to stay conscious," Sark offered, completely out of his depth in such a situation.  
  
"Tell Syd..." Eric mumbled, blinking rapidly. Blood spilled from his mouth as he spoke. "Tell Syd..." He let out a voiceless moan. "...tell Syd..."  
  
He didn't get the chance to finish. He gave a sudden jerk, and died drowning on the blood filling his lungs.   
  
Sark reared back as his full weight fell against him, attempting to process the latest events. Irina had tried to kill him. Eric had tackled him. Eric was dead. Irina was running after Sydney.  
  
Sark jumped to his feet, snatching Eric's M-16 off the floor. "I'll tell her," he said forcefully, looking down on Eric's pitiful body.  
  
Death had never affected Sark before, never meant anything but a job well done. Eric had been murdered, taken the bullet for Sark. Sark had no illusions to the reason - Eric had acted on instinct, a senseless death. But not meaningless. He had only come to this place because of Sydney.  
  
Sark turned away and dashed after Irina.


	25. Ink Stains

**Part 25 : Ink Stains****  
****-**  
  
Irina sprinted down the corridor, jumping over Pike's body without a second glance. "Sydney?" she called out, scanning the chamber feverishly as she drew a fresh clip from her jacket and locked it into her Beretta.  
  
Before her, glittering in the dim firelight, Rambaldi's artifacts sat untouched along the narrow shelves. Irina stood in the open doorway, looking into the empty room.  
  
Hidden behind the door, Sydney slammed her knee against the wood. It swung out, banging ruthlessly into Irina, and sending her sprawling.  
  
Reflexively Irina drew up her Beretta parallel to the Glock Sydney aimed calmly at her throat.  
  
"Hey, Mom," Sydney said tonelessly.  
  
A stand-off.  
  
"You got free," Irina observed extraneously. "Good."  
  
Sydney didn't waver, holding Irina's gaze with violent intensity. "You're trapped," she whispered.  
  
"Don't underestimate me, Sydney."  
  
"And don't patronize me, Mom. You won't kill me and I can't afford to kill you. We're _both_ trapped," Sydney spat.  
  
Irina smiled. "Consider you're position, Sydney. I always intended to lose my life by your hand. You, however, have always refused to accept the terms. It was a clever plan, I'll admit. Build your own organization to battle mine, then use the Medici as a shield from my allies once I'm dead. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it has Sark written all over it."  
  
"So now what?" Sydney asked, aiming the Glock steady.  
  
Irina didn't answer, watching her daughter almost proudly, nervous and sorrowful.  
  
This was ultimately pointless. Irina had previously believed Eric was responsible for the conclusive Choice, the option of taking Sydney away or locking her in the game forever. Irina now knew, as Sydney had all along, that the Choice in fact belonged to Sark. Sark was also now in the know, but Sydney wasn't aware of the fact. Sydney was also clueless to the minor detail that Irina had just murdered Eric and that Sark was now charging toward them with one hell of a vendetta to be settled with Irina.  
  
A knowledgeable family, those Bristows.   
  
With a sudden movement, Sydney cast the Glock away, tossing it to the floor without a glance. Grinning wryly, Irina followed suit.  
  
"Julian will find me. You know that, don't you?" Sydney said quietly.   
  
Well aware that he was in reality just down the hall, Irina nodded. "But who's to say he'll even accept it? What makes you certain he'd choose you over everything he's ever known?"  
  
"I'm not certain. I _can't_ be. All I know is that I love him, more than you could ever understand. I won't ask him to make the choice, Mom. If I have to, I will kill you. I will spend my life running, hiding in the shadows until I become one myself." Tears clouded her eyes, unshed and defiant. "If he asks me to, I'll stay. But I won't ask him to go with me."  
  
"He won't choose you, Sydney. Don't fool yourself. He's like a son to me. I made him into what he is, what you love. I know him better than even you," Irina cautioned.  
  
"Maybe. But, seriously, Mom, quit saying he's like your son. 'Cause, y'know - I'm your daughter, here. Makes what we do at night sound really gross, if you know what I mean," Sydney cut in, cavalier.  
  
"Don't you understand? Don't you see? Years of planning, the torture, the brainwashing, the murder, all of it was for you! Are you going to render Jack's death pointless for a life of monotony? Sark isn't your dream man, Sydney, he will betray you, as he betrays everyone else! He's a monster, Sydney, and you cannot change him!"  
  
"That's good," Sydney replied vaguely. "Because, honestly, I kind of like him the way he is now."  
  
Careless, Irina didn't see it coming until Sydney's wounded hand struck her viciously across the face. As Irina reeled backwards, Sydney continued with a round-house kick that sent her crashing into the wall.  
  
"I know I can't kill you yet," Sydney said conversationally, grabbing her mother by the collar and pulling her up, "but I can sure as hell make you wish I would."  
  
Irina retaliated with a backhand punch, snapping Sydney's head back as blood erupted from her nose. Sydney shoved her back into the wall, Irina's forehead cracking against the stone.  
  
"How's it feel?" Sydney barked, falling into a boxer's stance and slamming her fist into Irina's ear. "How's it feel, Mom, to be so completely wrong about everything you believed?"  
  
Irina swung around, kicking low to sweep Sydney's legs from beneath her. She fell onto the floor, wincing. Without missing a beat, Sydney shot her feet up and out, catching Irina in the stomach and sending her flying backwards.  
  
Sydney scrambled up, sidestepping a swipe from Irina and striking with a fierce left hook. Irina went down, then up again, resilient as her daughter followed up with a blistering axe-kick to the face. Irina responded by latching onto Sydney's ankle and jerking sideways, throwing her into the wall. Sydney pushed herself upright and pounded her heel against Irina's shoulder.  
  
"How's it feel to know you murdered your husband for nothing?" Sydney hissed, catching a glancing blow to the chin from Irina's fist. "How's it feel to know you've failed? To know you've ruined everything you've ever touched with your hate, your vengeance, your petty little plans?" She darted forward, hammering her elbow into Irina's collarbone. "How's it feel to know," she gritted breathlessly, "that Rambaldi got it _wrong?_"  
  
"_No_," Irina snapped, twisting Sydney's arm up to drive triple kicks to her ribcage.  
  
"Yeah, Irina. Rambaldi was wrong." Sydney spun sideways, clipping Irina across the face with her mutilated hand. "Of course Julian isn't my dream man. Of course he isn't everything I've ever wanted. But he's all I need. He's never betrayed me, never will. And Dad's death? It's always _been_ pointless."  
  
Smoothly, without thinking, Irina withdrew the switchblade hidden in her sleeve. Sydney dodged immediately, left, right, down, out – the blade sliced through her bare arm, blending seamlessly with the semi-scabbed lacerations Ockley had inflicted hours before. Irina swung without discipline, without rationalization beyond the fact that Sydney was poised to destroy all Irina's sadistic hopes for her daughter. Sydney recoiled from the knife, backing away cautiously.  
  
"Sydney!"   
  
A voice from the doorway, frantic. British, Sydney thought, but then absurdly corrected it to Welsh. Sark stood in the doorway, tripping over Pike's body, and Sydney would have called a warning had the shock of his appearance and the necessity of avoiding Irina's switchblade not gotten in her way.  
  
At the noise, Irina spun. Some semblance of control seemed to wash over her at the sight of Sark, decisiveness and calculation returning to her eyes.  
  
"Julian!" Sydney screeched, and he brought up his M-16. He began to pull the trigger as Irina's wrist flicked up and out.  
  
With a hiss the switchblade shot through the air, Irina's aim low and frenzied. This was the solution, the end to the puzzle - the knife buried itself in Sark's chest. He jerked backwards, slamming harshly into the wall with the force of the throw. He blinked once and slid to the floor.  
  
Both survivors watched him slump sideways, blood issuing freely onto the floor. Both heard the indistinct groan that escaped his throat before silence fell, feeling it like a direct, crippling blow to the heart.   
  
Sydney took a step back, then two. Halting, blind steps, away from Irina and away from the beautiful ghost laying on the ground.  
  
"How did he... when was... why..." she mumbled, eyes dry.  
  
Irina crouched, gathering up Pike's Glock. She gripped it by the barrel, holding it out for Sydney. "I'm guessing he uncovered Michael Vaughn's true loyalty. Your faithful Agent Weiss is somewhere in the main chamber, I assume. I doubt he got far after I left them."  
  
Sydney wanted to run to Sark's side, to slap him awake, to scream and cry and kiss him until he opened his eyes and told her he wasn't dead. She couldn't bring herself to even look at his body. She observed the gun Irina was offering, urging her to accept the inevitable and place a bullet in her mother's skull. Irina, too, she ignored. She took another step backwards.  
  
Irina smiled tightly. "You forced my hand, Sydney. You forced me to eliminate everyone you love, you know you did. This is as much your fault as it is mine."  
  
Another step, toe-heel as she slowly fled to the opposite wall. Sydney couldn't feel, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but display a vague front of defiance. _Dad, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian_, she recited voicelessly. _All gone because of me.__  
_  
"There isn't a way out, Sydney. There is only survival. And a parent," Irina said, "will always put the life of their child before their own. Do it, Sydney. Rambaldi chose you - accept it!"  
  
Jack, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian. All of them gone because of Irina. Another step back.  
  
"He chose _you_. You can't escape. You _know_ this, Sydney," Irina insisted.  
  
Sydney's eyes flickered over to the shelves, lined with the antique artifacts Rambaldi had created with such ardent care. Irina advanced resolutely, still waving the Glock of Sydney to take.   
  
Jack, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian. All of them gone because of _Rambaldi_.  
  
Mechanically, Sydney reached out, her hand brushing against the music box placed on the shelf. With casual indifference she threw it to the ground, aged metal splintering as it met concrete.  
  
Irina stopped short, transfixed, horrified. "No, Sydney, don't -"  
  
His contraptions, his machines, his trinkets, all swept onto the ground, glass smashed by Sydney's uncaring fist, sketches torn in half by shaking fingers. Sydney held out her arm and walked in reverse, scattering the artifacts, sending them crashing onto the ground, breaking most and relishing it.  
  
Irina remained rooted to the spot, watching the pieces she'd spent her life collecting clatter brutally to the floor.  
  
"Solved your problems, Mom?" Sydney asked, her voice lifeless and jarring. "Your solution to the puzzle? Spill as much blood as it takes for me to kill you?"  
  
"Sydney..." Irina warned, gripping the barrel of the Glock until her knuckles went white.  
  
"How do you justify taking everything from me just so that I'll follow in your footsteps? How do you dare fall asleep at night? How do you…" Her voice trailed away, breathless with disbelief, carefully locking off the realizations reaching her mind. Process, compartmentalize, act.  
  
Sydney reached out and lifted the Notebook off the shelf. Irina froze, all threats dying on her lips as Sydney casually flipped open the cover and scanned the pages.   
  
"Faith… It's a tricky thing, isn't it?" she observed, watching Irina from the corner of her eyes as she read the meaningless line of text that meant everything to her mother. "It's so enigmatic, and it contradicts itself constantly. It demands respect when it gives none in return. It relies on unerring belief to conquer all skepticism, disdaining of anything less than fanatic worship. In the eyes of the holy, there's no in-between, no common ground. Nothing in the world is as ruthless as faith."  
  
"Perhaps. But once you have it, there's no turning back," Irina answered, staring at the book in Sydney's hand.  
  
"Yeah," Sydney said. She extracted Ockley's lighter from her pocket. "That's really gotta suck for you."  
  
She flicked on the flame, orange and angry, and held it to the frayed edges of the pages.  
  
It burned with alarming ferocity; Flame traveled speedily across the dry paper, devouring words and sketches and diagrams, ashes crumbling in Sydney's fingers as she released her hold on the manuscript, letting it waft to the floor, embers in its wake.  
  
Irina let out a howl, ragged and indistinct, and lunged forward. Sydney jumped back, but Irina ignored her, swiping at the flames as it demolished Rambaldi's greatest achievement.  
  
It was a hopeless effort. The flames grew and consumed, biting as Irina's hands until she was forced to draw back.  
  
Sydney smirked in agonized triumph. "Hurts, doesn't it?" she mocked.  
  
Irina launched forward, catching Sydney around the waist and throwing her into the wall. Sydney readily jammed her knee under Irina's jaw.  
  
From there-on out it was a brutal give-and-take, blow after blow exchanged as the two danced across the room - blood, bruises, and broken bones. Her youth and general screw-you attitude toward this particular fight would have normally left Sydney indisputably the victor. Normally, though, she wouldn't be coming off 28 hours of repetitive torture.  
  
Irina caught her once more against the wall, using her forearm across Sydney's throat as an anchor, and proceeded to punch her daughter silly. The destruction of Rambaldi's masterpiece had sent Irina over the edge; She no longer strove for dignity, for respect, for absolute control. She thought only of disciplining her savagely errant child.  
  
Sydney fought for relief as Irina's fist pounded repeatedly into her already-damaged face, bruises appearing around the cuts inflicted by Ockley's scalpel. A grunt escaped her throat as Irina's knuckles tore a rend in her lip. Tasting blood, she forced her eyes to focus.  
  
Irina drew back her arm for another strike, so Sydney did the logical thing, and head-butted the arrogant bitch.   
  
Shoving Irina back, Sydney got back in the game, her kicks and punches landing with renewed accuracy. Julian was dead, she told herself grimly. She didn't bother questioning how he had got here, focusing only on the result. She had work to do before she joined him.  
  
Stepping out of reach from Irina's wild swings, Sydney scrutinized her opponent. She cleared her mind, focusing desperately on her agent training. She again moved forward, ducked a punch, and drop-kicked her with both feet to the chest.  
  
As customary in this hellish fight, Irina was thrown through the air, lost from Sydney's vision momentarily as Sydney hit the ground lightly (hence the term 'drop-kick'). Sydney hastily flipped back vertical, coming up ready, and stumbled to a halt.  
  
Irina stood by the door, blood trickling unheeded from the corner of her mouth. Supported by the wall, breathing heavily with his arm snaked threateningly around Irina's throat, Sark caught Sydney's gaze and held it.  
  
None of it made sense, not really. None of it was justified. Certainly not right. "I though you'd died," Sydney whispered, tears finally flooding her eyes.  
  
Sark shrugged, attempting his patented smirk. "I gave you my word," he explained, struggling for air.  
  
Irina attempted to escape, digging her fingers painfully into Sark's arm. He held Sydney's gaze.  
  
As always, he could read her clear as day: fright, uncertainty, defeat, acceptance.  
  
Without breaking their stare, Sydney nodded.  
  
A practiced move, almost effortless, Sark gripped Irina's chin and twisted. A surprised look flitted across her face at the sound of bone snapping. Sark released Irina instantly, pushing her away as she tumbled to the floor, head bent at a sickening angle.  
  
Sydney couldn't move, couldn't think, or do anything besides wrap her arms around herself and attempt to achieve inner peace.  
  
Right. Because that _always_ worked.  
  
"You were dead. Irina threw that knife and… you were dead," Sydney mumbled, unaware of the fact that she hadn't blinked since she'd noticed Sark alive and killing.  
  
Using the wall for support, Sark regained his balance, holding a hand to the wound at his side. Implausibly, he looked faintly embarrassed. "It's not that bad. Just clipped a rib. I hit my head when I fell, blacked out for bit," he explained inelegantly. "Come here."  
  
Numb, Sydney staggered over to where he stood, towering amid the two bodies littering the stone floor. Cautiously she reached out her hand.  
  
He virtually snarled when he examined her hand, her fingertips a revolting carnage save for her intact index finger. The rest of her had fared little better – incisions, deep and shallow, marred every exposed inch of skin. Bruises, every shade of the rainbow. Her ankle was twisted at an odd angle, and she walked with a slight limp.  
  
"Beautiful as always," he sighed.  
  
He jumped slightly at the unexpected touch on his face. She looked up at him, shivering. "You found me."

He smirked at that. "Did you expect otherwise?"  
  
Unsteady, she swallowed, forcing the words through her mouth. "Mom said... Eric..."  
  
"It was his choice," Sark interrupted shortly. "We discovered your location and it never crossed his mind to stay behind. He took a bullet aimed for me. He died saying your name, and he didn't regret any of it."  
  
Biting her lips, swatting at her hair, looking at her shoes, the ceiling, the battlefield cluttered with Rambaldi's artifacts, Sydney struggled in vain to put some order to the chaos, some reason behind the mindless slaying of her loved ones. She latched onto Sark's chest, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt.   
  
"So now what?" she repeated, burying her face in his shoulder.  
  
With sudden fierceness, Sark's arms tightened around her waist. Logic told him that now was not the time, certainly not the place, that both of them were injured, perhaps beyond repair. The sentiment failed to register as he tugged her head back and set about kissing her frantically.  
  
He'd come close, so perilously close, to losing her. Sydney, the one thing he had faith in, the one thing he valued in a lifetime of stealing priceless objects. He ran his fingers along her skin, slick with blood from the awakened wounds carved along her body, felt her wince against his mouth but lacked the restraint to pull back.  
  
Her arms wound around his neck and his around her waist, gripping each other vehemently without any intention of ever letting go. He licked away the blood seeping from her split lip, grazing his tongue along her teeth. Sydney took a step backwards as he pushed against her in an attempt to hold her closer than scientifically possible.   
  
Her heel caught on Irina's limp arm and they nearly fell. Sydney broke away out of necessity of adjusting her stance, her eyes drawn reflexively to the massacre at her feet. She let out a shuddering laugh.  
  
"That kinda kills the mood, huh?" she said wryly.  
  
Sark reached up, softly guiding her face back to his. He stared intently, ice blue against fiery brown. "Sydney..." he stated, hesitant.  
  
Her heartrate stilled, his accelerated. Briefly considering retreat, Sark compulsively tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear.  
  
"Sydney," he attempted again. "Forgive my insidious timing, but I'm compelled to confess that I'm rather deeply in love wi-"  
  
She quickly pressed a finger over his lips, halting his words. "Don't," she objected.  
  
He promptly began arguing, but she shook her head to silence him, smiling faintly. "Don't say it. Don't change. I already know. I don't want to change you."  
  
Mr. Sark's infamous smirk, the look of bemused superiority, returned full-force. He lazily ran his fingers across her face, taking his time replying.  
  
"Silly girl," he drawled finally. "You already have."  
  
Sark took a step back, holding out his hand for her.  
  
-  
  
Slowly, shaking, she knelt beside him. Gently she lifted his head onto her lap, combing trembling fingers through his thick black hair. His skin, always so pale, now grey. His eyes, always so expressive, now cold. His lips, always grinning or laughing or kissing, now stained with a fine layer of dark dried blood. His heart, always forgiving, now stilled.  
  
Sydney considered what a waste it was, what a pathetic end to someone so remarkable. His body lay spread-eagled across the worn tiles in the abandoned chapel. Heroes didn't die like this, she thought. All the stories he had told her, redundant fairy tales energized by his infectious optimism, none of them had ended in such a way. It was twisted, wrong, because Happily Ever After did not include Eric Weiss sprawled on the floor, killed by a bullet in his back.  
  
She cried freely, something Eric had always said took courage. She hadn't understood until now – tears acknowledged pain instead of hiding from it.  
  
"I'm sorry, Eric," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Silence reverberated through the empty church, the air sickening with the taste of darkness. Sark stood by, wary. All their enemies dead, he now had to face the task of surviving.  
  
"I miss you," Sydney whispered, and kissed Eric softly on the lips.  
  
_"He'd better take good care of you,"_ Eric had told her, the morning of Jack's funeral. Sydney laughed.   
  
"You really got screwed over in this whole mess, didn't you?"  
  
Sark touched her shoulder, catching her attention. "We have to go," he warned.  
  
Nodding, Sydney climbed to her feet, memorizing Eric's features one last time. Sark pulled her away, guiding her vigilantly toward the doors. He pushed them open wide, savoring the cool night wind that swept over them.  
  
Outside the doorway, Sydney turned, casting a final glance inside the _L'église des âmes perdues_, the Church of Lost Souls. On the opposite wall, dominate behind the ornate altar, the symbol of Rambaldi stared vacantly back at her.  
  
With a shove Sark slammed the mahogany doors closed, trapping the bloodbath within.  
  
-  
  
**Author's Note** : I got a bit preachy, a bit chatty, a bit kill-happy. So, the next and last chapter will be coming very soon, I promise.  
Thanks as always to my lovely and talented beta Becca (or, for short, Betca) (though don't call her Betca) (I'm serious), who actually read this through while she was at work. I hate (read : envy) people who can multitask. Makes me feel like an uncoordinated loser. Ignorance is bliss and all that, you see.   
Also many thanks to my readers. Who needs morphine when I have reviews?   
Cheers,  
Renny


	26. Zip Mouth Angel

**Author's Notes** : Sorry about the delay. Don't ask.  
Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story – it's been a loooong while, hasn't it? Glancing through the earlier chapters, it seems like I've gotten noticeably better at writing, which I absolutely attribute to my sweet, lovely, and talented as hell (were hell, you know, talented) beta and friend, Becca. I think I've said this before, but you really should read her fics. It's all posted right here at ff.net, username radcgg. Check it out, kittens.  
It's been fun writing this fic. Stressful and extremely frustrating, but fun. All the pestering (I call it pestering, but I love it) actually paid off - this started as a one-parter. I'm supremely grateful for Wes and RitaX's incessant badgering.  
I meant to personally thank my faithful reviewers, but I realize now that I'm entirely too lazy. Suffice to say, you guys mean the world to me. I probably could have done this without you, but certainly not as happily.  
So, before I go into some type of annoying political rant, thus forcing the stagehands to yank me off stage with a comically oversized cane 'round the neck - for my sake, just image I'm on a stage - I give you the 26th (ouch!) and final chapter. Points to anyone who recognizes the title!  
Cheers.  
  
-  
**Part 26 : Zip Mouth Angel  
**-  
  
She stirred faintly, rolling onto her side, and settled again into a deep sleep. Not for long, though - a startling sound jolted her awake, sending her leaping upward in a frenzy.  
  
The ocean, the noise of soft waves seeping through the window. She saw the white walls of the room and, in her half-dreaming haze, nearly screamed.  
  
The awareness of warm sheets against her bare skin returned some order to her senses; the lab in Scarborough never had a soft mattress beneath her. Sydney let out a shuddering laugh, feeling foolish. Bad memories were usually left behind in the nightmares of sleep, rarely remaining once she opened her eyes.  
  
Frowning, she twisted her head back and forth, noting the empty bed beside her. Thinking a thousand things, all incoherent, Sydney scrambled off the bed, shedding the blankets onto the floor. Almost as an afterthought she shrugged into the clothes strewn across the room, running barefoot out the glass doors and onto the patio.  
  
Outside was eerily quiet, peaceful in the late morning mist, overcast with rain clouds. Meeting her eyes was sand, soft colors and placid noises, seagulls and white waves and nothingness. Cautiously Sydney stepped into the filtered sun, her toes sinking into the sand, the ocean before her and the empty house at her back. The beach stretching across the coast was deserted, untouched by another human for miles.  
  
Then she saw him, a slight figure dressed it black, out of place on the pastel backdrop as he stood indifferently on the wooden dock. Without hesitation she jogged down to the shore, hopping onto the boardwalk, sun- scorched wood sizzling under her feet.  
  
He didn't move as she approached, half-glancing her way in acknowledgement before turning back to his perusal of the clear water below. She caught hold of his hand, clutching it in both of her own as she stood indecisively behind him.  
  
"I heard the ocean," she explained, running her thumb along his wrist. "I've gotten used to waking up to the sound your voice instead."  
  
"I needed to think," he answered softly, eyes fixated on the sparkling waves.  
  
Sydney nodded, unwilling to ask further. "Where are we?" she wondered, a safe topic.  
  
"Kiselevsk."  
  
She frowned, gazing at the sweltering land surrounding them. "We're in Russia?" she said skeptically.  
  
"That's where I told our Medici agents we are," Sark elaborated, strumming his fingers against her palm without turning. "This is Maui, darling. I thought you might like to see it after all."  
  
Surprised anguish clogged her throat. A beach house in Maui. "How did you know about that?" she whispered.  
  
"Agent Weiss told me while traveling to Etrelles. I believe he was under the impression that I was ignoring him," Sark replied, finally circling around to face her.  
  
Sydney exhaled carefully, reigning in her tears. Sark made no move to touch her, to comfort her, instead releasing his hand from her grasp.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me? I could've stopped it. Could've saved you," he murmured, staring at her intently.  
  
"It wasn't my decision," she answered quietly. "I couldn't ask that of you and you couldn't offer it." She paused, grinning wistfully. "And I don't know if anything's changed."  
  
Sark laughed at that. He considered apologizing, begging forgiveness for his ignorance, his intentional denial of the truth against a lifetime of precise logic. Considered it and dismissed it; Words wouldn't negate the casualties.  
  
"You knew all along," he accused. "From the very beginning, that night when you came to me and warned me about the church. You hated me then, but you had to protect me from the Covenant." He halted, frowning. "You always have protected me."  
  
"No, I'm just not that good an aim," she replied lightly.  
  
He nodded expression blank. "It's true, though. All those years ago, back to the very first time we met. We fought and fought, used every weapon imaginable against each other, but we never did any real damage, did we? When it was kill or be killed, you'd let me slip away. Even then, you were watching out for me. Guarding me."  
  
"Maybe. But it was you who rescued me in the end," Sydney noted. She smiled. "That makes us even."  
  
"You should have told me."  
  
Sighing wearily, he turned back toward the ocean. Overhead the grey sky broke, sending frail droplets down around them. Sydney moved in a circle, inspecting the landscape critically, committing the sights to memory.  
  
"This place..." she said slowly. "It's nice. It's... peaceful. I could be happy here. That's all I've ever wanted." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "But it won't be enough for you. You know it as well as I do. If you want me, I'll go with you. I'll accept the prophesy, I'll stay in the game. I'll play it out if that's what you need, Julian. I'd never ask you to change."  
  
He hesitated, arms crossed almost defensively as he listened to her announcement. He didn't move, remained silent for so long Sydney wondered if he had even heard her. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his jacket and produced a frayed velvet jewelry box, aged and battered and instantly identifiable.  
  
"Agent Weiss and I stopped by your safehouse in Etrelles," he told her calmly. "I thought you might want these."  
  
Sydney took the box, opening it to inspect the familiar rings inside. The memories, like cauterizing a wound, played back in her mind rapidly as she thought of the two men who had given them to her. Danny's diamond, Simon's blue gemstone - and a third, a dark emerald set in a silver band.  
  
Sydney blinked, uncomprehending.  
  
"I realized something in that damned church," Sark said calmly, standing with businesslike arrogance. "You call me Julian. Odd that it should matter, but it does. Vaughn, Dixon, even Weiss at first. You trust me enough to use my real name."  
  
She managed to tear her eyes away from the ring, catching his stare with wide eyes.  
  
"I'm done with killing, Sydney. One way or another. If it's a choice between spending my life running or spending it with you, you really needn't worry, darling." Sark grinned ruefully, holding out his hand to catch falling raindrops in his palm. "You're correct, Sydney. Theft and murder, lies and pain, it's all I've ever known. And I am more than willing to give that up if you'll consider being my wife."  
  
A thin, incomprehensible sound escaped Sydney's throat. She didn't break down crying, or throw herself into his arms, or scream his name to the heavens, or any of that Harlequin shit. She'd been hurt, badly. Up and down, 2 2, simple as that. Sydney had lost too much in her life to ever gain it all back.  
  
But it was a start.  
  
Timidly, Sydney gathered the three rings in her hand, casting aside the box. As Sark waited impatiently, she stepped onto the edge of the dock, the water rolling below and the rain picking up force. She inspected Danny's ring, fingering the clear diamond carefully. "Danny was safe," she say declared, half to Sark and mostly to herself. "Sweet. Gentle. All about field trips and Sunday mornings and quiet dinners at home. He used to say that without me, everything seemed trivial. He cared about me for no reason, you know? He just decided that I was the one he needed." Her lips twisted into a smile, bitter and genuine. "Eric always reminded me a bit of him."  
  
Without further ceremony, she tossed the ring into the water, not bothering to watch it being swept away into the sand below. Sark stood wary, uncertain.  
  
Sydney examined the blue diamond Simon had given her, along with a promise to stand beside her until the day he died. Fool, she thought despairingly. She'd been half way around the globe, under a desk with Marshall hiding from Sark of all people, when Jack had placed a bullet in Simon's stomach. He'd died wretched, screaming obscene words about Julia Thorne in desperation to maintain Sydney's cover.  
  
"Simon hated the world so much," she whispered. "He was always searching, always hunting for something he could never quite find. He needed me, I think. More than I'll ever know." Tears falling freely, she cast Simon's ring into the sea.  
  
She clenched Sark's ring in her fist, struggling for composure. "Vaughn... he never really loved me, did he? We were never really together. He got his brain messed with before we went on our first date. No, Mom took him away before I had the chance to love him." She swiped at her eyes, letting out an unsteady breath. "I'm almost thankful for that."  
  
Softly, somewhat clumsily, Sark stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She bit her lip until it bled.  
  
"And then there was Eric."  
  
Sydney said no more, staring blindly at the crashing waves beyond, rain matting their clothes to their bodies.  
  
"I've won you by default, haven't I?" Sark whispered, squeezing her tighter.  
  
Sydney angled her head sideways, upward to see Sark's face. "They don't compare," she said. "Secrets, hopes, promises – in the end, none of them were enough. You think you're the rebound guy? The only one left standing, to pick up the pieces?" She shook her head violently. "You're the only thing I wanted, Julian. More than peace, more than a normal life, a normal family. That's why I didn't tell you what Rambaldi meant in his Notebook. I..." Her voice cracked, and he flinched. "I'd rather have the guy than another damn ring!"  
  
He stilled. His breath stopped, his fingers, clenched on her hips, froze. His eyes, cold and blue and unreadable, fixed on Sydney and didn't waver.  
  
Sark smirked. Old habits die hard.  
  
"No need to be so dramatic," he chided, resting his forehead against hers. "You never could rid yourself of me. Why should the rest of eternity be any different?"  
  
Somewhere, Sydney thought, the director cued the cameraman to pan back for a distance shot, the sun magically began to set in red and bronze hues, the _1912 Overture_ filled the air. Strangely she realized that this was the fairytale ending, the final act that she'd given up hoping for.  
  
Sark kissed her as the rain beat down on them, for the first time in his life feeling immortal. For the hell of it, he lifted Sydney off her feet and spun her in the air.  
  
Sydney pulled away from Sark's embrace enough to look him in the eye.  
  
"I'm kind of leaning _against_ a church wedding," she told him, grinning.  
  
"Alright, then," Sark answered easily. "But I'm asking Vaughn to be the Best Man."  
  
She moved to punch him, and was detained by a scorching kiss.  
  
Two years lost. They had a lot of time to make up for.  
  
-  
  
_'Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke.  
  
Alice did not much like her keeping so close to her: first because the Duchess was very ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin on Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude: so she bore it as well as she could.  
  
'The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little.  
  
'Tis so,' said the Duchess: and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"'  
  
'Somebody said,' Alice whispered, that it's done by everybody minding their own business!'  
  
'Ah well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added and the moral of that is--"Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves."'_  
  
-

Finis


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